


Ex Cinere

by Anonymous



Series: De Ave Phoenice [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Butchered Elven as Real Elven, Butchered Irish as Chasind, Butchered Latin as Tevene, Butchered Yiddish as Ander, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Community: dragonage_kink, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Food, Hurt/Comfort, It's a Linguistic Chop Shop of a Fic, Kirkwall, M/M, Multi, Offscreen Rape/Non-con, PTSD, Past Rape, Rape Recovery, Self-Medication, Sexual Slavery, Spirits, Tevinter, The Fade, threats of rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 111,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3533426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders: So, there must be mages in Tevinter that don't use blood magic.<br/>Fenris: Of course. There are slaves. The magisters do not hesitate to collar their own kind.<br/>---<br/>Or, the one where Danarius finds out about the blood magic ritual his long time enemy Halward Pavus is planning and things go even worse for Dorian.</p><p>~~~OFFICIALLY ON HIATUS UNTIL JANUARY FIFTEENTH!~~~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hawke: Ignition

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the kinkmeme prompt this is a fill for: Danarius and Halward Pavus are long time rivals in Tevinter - mostly because of their stance on Blood Magic.
> 
> When Danarius learns that not only is Halward is planning a BLOOD MAGIC ritual but it's because his son is gay. Danarius blackmails the Pavus family into forcing Dorian to marry him. While marriage between two men is not unheard of in Tevinter, it is frowned upon and so the Pavus family have no idea why Danarius would want this.
> 
> After Dorian is forced to marry Danarius, they figure out why - the 'marriage' is just a ruse and Dorian is all but a bed slave to Danarius. Worse, everyone of import knows it!
> 
> Danarius has Fenris guard Dorian when he's not guarding him. Fenris stops Dorian from escaping but they do start to eventually like each other.
> 
> Fenris makes his escape (either with Dorian's help or on his own). Through out the years, Dorian subtly tries to help Fenris remain free however he can but Danarius finally gets Fenris's sister and they travel to Kirkwall.
> 
> \+ Danarius often brings Fenris in to 'share' his 'husband' with the elf.  
> \+ Danarius often binds Dorian's magic when he feels Dorian is being too 'Bratty' and trying to escape.  
> \+ In Kirkwall, Dorian helps the group defeat Danarius - even if he can't use his magic, he can still hit things with a staff very hard.  
> \+ Dorian decides to stay in Kirkwall after Danarius's death - and tries to correct the groups opinions on Tevinter  
> \+ Eventual Dorian/Fenris when they're both free
> 
> You may have to skew Dorian's age a bit. If he's late 20s/early 30s in DA:I, he'd be about 17/18 when Fenris is suppose to escape. Up to A!A on that."
> 
> You can find the prompt here, along with some Inquisition-era dialogue [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=51514741#t51514741).
> 
> This Hawke is a great big lesbian. If you care about face claims, I'm partial to picturing [Flora Kim](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/b9/c3/22/b9c3224e1e8bc8f818485bdbf2f33467.jpg). 
> 
> Dorian's description owes something to the mustacheless gifsets circulating tumblr.
> 
> Edit 5/1/15: I am going to try and update this fic on the first and fifteenth of each month. Try being the operative word, as the chapters keep growing on me until each is practically the length of a big bang fic. Still, I have an outline and an ending, so hopefully things will go a little more swiftly now.
> 
> Edit: 6/4/15: I'm going to go through an edit this fic for typos, and inconsistencies that arose from my not having a timeline or outline when I started writing. If you see the word count changing, that's why.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris has told Hawke enough about Dorian for her to recognize the man when Danarius drags him into her tavern.

The first Hawke heard of Dorian, it wasn’t by name. She wasn’t Champion yet. She wasn’t even an orphan yet, and that was actually how it’d come up.

“And she just keeps making noises about a husband!” she hissed to Varric, Anders, and Fenris as they huddled closer to the fire. They were on the Wounded Coast, heading back to Kirkwall, and rather than hurry and try and make it back to the city before nightfall they had elected to set up camp. Which only meant that she had a captive audience, and if her mother ever found out she was complaining about her behind her back, she’d know exactly who to blame. “A husband! For me! _Me._ I don’t want to marry any man! She knows that! And even if I were so inclined, I’ve made my choice! Merrill has as good as moved in!”

“Well, you are a noble now,” Fenris said. “With Bethany in the Wardens, it does fall to you to carry on the family line.”

“I don’t want to carry on the family line!” she wailed. “And she’s one to talk about it! I wouldn’t be here if she’d given a toss about carrying on the family line!”

“She had her brother,” Fenris pointed out.

“Yes, and I positively swimming in cousins now, aren’t I?” she snapped. “And why are you taking her side anyway?”

“I am not,” Fenris said. “I am merely pointing out that her opinions are not unusual.”

“Well sod usual, I’m Hawke!”

“I suppose it’s the same way in Tevinter,” Anders said, and despite her inclination towards men (or lack thereof) she could have kissed him then. Watching him and Fenris go at each other wasn’t really high up on her list of things to do, but sure beat the way this conversation was going.

“If not worse,” Fenris agreed. “Magic runs in families, after all. Marriages are arranged to produce offspring likely to have prodigious magical talents. It’s a paramount concern.”

“Wait so- they essentially chose marriages based upon magical pedigree? Like a breeding program?” Anders asked.

“And Maker help those who refuse,” Fenris said. For a moment he appeared almost guilty, then he turned his face and she couldn’t get a read on him. “In Tevinter, there was a young man who had about as much interest in women as Hawke has in men. His parents found out, and attempted to find a blood magic ritual in order to change his preferences.”

“They _what_?” Ander’s asked. “Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels, can blood magic even do that?”

“I am uncertain,” Fenris admitted. “When Danarius found out he blackmailed them- the father was, in public, staunchly against blood magic, and if word got out that he’d been trying to perform such a ritual on his own son, the scandal would have been severe.”

“What happened to the son?” Hawke asked.

“The ritual was not performed. But his life wasn’t especially happy, thanks to Danarius’ intervention.”

After that the topic of conversation had moved to something a little more cheery, like the Qunari.

* * *

 

The second time Hawke heard about Dorian, she still wasn’t the Champion, but she was a newly-minted orphan, and Fenris used his name.

“Danarius has a husband,” he said. It was such a non-sequitur in his horrifying story of the confrontation between his old master and the Fog Warriors, that she was convinced that she’d misheard.

“Did you just say Danarius has a husband?” she asked.

Fenris nodded, and then tipped his head back, to better swallow the last of the alcohol in his bottle.

“I thought, given what you told me about how marriage worked in Tevinter-” she began, stopping when Fenris snorted.

“It's an old law, one written when politics in Tevinter were less vicious. Alliances were rather more important then- the idea was to allow two Houses to bind themselves together if they didn’t have compatible heirs. It is very rarely practiced anymore, and when it is done, it is something that is done only after suitable heirs have been produced, with the understanding that there is nothing sexual or romantic going on between the two parties.”

“I take it that was not the case with Danarius’ marriage,” Hawke said.

“The young man I told you about- the one whose parents tried to change him. You remember?” he asked.

“The one whose parents Danarius blackmailed,” she replied warily.

“His name was Dorian, and he’s what Danarius wanted in exchange for his silence,” Fenris confirmed. “Danarius married him.”

“Well. That sounds like a terrible situation to be in,” Hawke said.

“It was, and one he tried to escape often during those first few months. I stopped him.”

Hawke really didn’t know what to do with what Fenris was saying. “Well, no wonder he stopped trying to escape after a few months!” Except to stick her foot _all_ the way down her throat, apparently.

It would have been easier if Fenris had snapped at her, rather than accepting that remark. “He didn’t stop escaping because of me. He stopped escaping because of what Danarius did.”

“What did he do?” Hawke asked, when Fenris showed no inclination of continuing on his own.

“He lined up all of his slaves, save for Dorian and myself, and had Dorian pick out a number from one to ten. He picked seven. Danarius divided the others into groups of ten, and had the seventh person in each group killed. He made Dorian watch. Then he had one of his apprentices flay me- carefully, so as not to disturb the lyrium. Dorian watched that too.” Fenris groped blindly for another bottle, not even bothering to smash the one he’d just finished. “I passed out. When I woke up in the healer's ward, Dorian was there. He apologized. He said he’d forgotten that he wasn’t the only person being held against their will, and he’d find a way for us both to escape, and that we'd escape in a way that wasn’t going to put the others in danger. I told him I didn’t want to escape.”

Hawke knew where this was headed now. “Danarius brought Dorian with him when he found you on Seheron.”

“He stepped between me and the surviving Fog Warriors- mostly children, at that point. It- jarred me out of it. I’d been obeying without thought, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to hurt Dorian. Even if Danarius treated him as a bed slave, I was supposed to defer to him as the son of magister, so long as it didn’t contradict Danarius’ orders.”

“Did he help you escape?” Hawke asked.

“Yes,” Fenris said, but he didn’t sound very sure. “He stared me down. He said ‘Fenris, please.’ And then I ran.”

“That doesn’t sound like very much help,” Hawke pointed out.

“He could have stopped me. He could have tried to escape with me. Instead he stayed with Danarius. He brought him back to Minrathous, which meant he couldn’t follow me directly.”

That made slightly more sense, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something she missed. The feeling stayed with her long after she’d left Fenris in his mansion.

* * *

The first time she _saw_ Dorian, she was the Champion of Kirkwall.

He was a clean-shaven, bronze-skinned man, who looked younger than Bethany, though she would later learn that he was very close to Hawke’s age. There was a staff gripped tightly in his hands, but he lacked the tell-tale shimmer of defensive and augmentation spells that cloaked the rest of the Magister’s party. His clothes were more revealing than theirs, and hugged his body more tightly: there was a large necklace glittering with oversized gems clasped very tightly around his neck.

No, not a necklace, she realized. A collar.

“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Danarius said. “The lad is rather skilled, is he not? Though perhaps a bit willful.” He chuckled, and reached out a hand, stroking down the side of the young man’s face. He closed his eyes, and made no move to stop him as the Magister slipped two fingers between the collar and his neck. “It is funny, how these things come around. It wasn’t too long ago that I would have said the same of my catamite,” Danarius purred, confirming the man’s identity for her. “And now look, he’s as pliant as a lamb.” He let Dorian go, with a low murmur of. “I’ll make sure your good behavior gets rewarded later,” that was nevertheless audible to the entire room.

He turned back to Fenris, who was already half phased, primed for battle, but before he could say anything else, Dorian spoke.

“No, you won’t,” he said, and Danarius turned back to him. “You really won’t let up on your grip at all, will you?”

Danarius regarded him for a moment, his sneer growing more pronounced.“Oh, you soft-hearted fool,” he said. “Is that what-”

There was a blur of motion, and Dorian went flying across the tavern as blood dripped from Danarius’ newly-broken nose. She put it together later: Dorian had hit him with his staff, and hit him very hard.

But at that moment she had more important things to think about, like not dying, and not letting any of her friends die. There was just enough time to slot Dorian- Dorian who struggled to his feet and leapt into the fray alongside them- into the friend slot before she slipped into shadow mode, going wherever she was able to do the most damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... when it comes to the non-con warnings, there are a lot of them, and I half feel like I should just link to "[It All Depends On What You Pay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZyTZuaiSck)" and be done with it. But, seeing as this is a serious issue which can be really fucking triggering, I'm going to do my best to make the warnings as complete as possible. Every time anything is going to be worse to read than the premise, I'll stick the details in the end notes, so those of you who don't want to be spoiled aren't, and those of you who don't want to be triggered can have the information they need to exercise self-care.
> 
> So, the blanket warnings for this story: I hit pretty much all the bullet points of this prompt, so past rape and sexual slavery are topics which are brought up again and again. Homophobia, both internalized homophobia from Dorian and Tevinter being generally awful and using it as a justification about how it's okay for Danarius to treat this particular Altus like a slave, is also present, as is the fact that the Tevinter Imperium is a slave society built upon eons of prejudices. There's also torture, murder, use of sentient beings as lab rats, and use of sentient beings as blood batteries, as Danarius was Dickmeister Meisterdick of Dickington, Dicksylvania. 
> 
> That being said, this story largely takes place in Kirkwall after Danarius has been killed, and is largely focused on Dorian (and to a lesser extend Fenris) healing from all of that trauma, while Hawke tries her hardest to make Kirkwall liveable. While Kirkwall is, as per canon, not exactly a friendly neighborhood, I don't think the present-time events go beyond anything that we'd see in canon; when it comes to that, the warnings are as much a matter of world-building as they are about events which take place over the course of the story. 
> 
> The are flashbacks/dream sequences throughout the story, and some of those do get pretty graphic. I will put them in italics, and by and large they you should be able to follow the plot without them. There will be a warning in the start chapter notes in every chapter which contains them.


	2. Fenris: Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris and Dorian are reunited.

**Here was how Fenris remembered their last meeting:**

Danarius appears and it feels like a slap in the face, like awakening from a dream. He was always going to own him. He was always going to be Danarius’ Fenris.

Dorian is there too, hunched in upon himself, eyes darting between Danarius and the Fog Warriors as they argue pointlessly, needlessly. This is inevitable. This is inescapable. This is who he is, not a warrior, but a weapon without will. The Qunari could only dream of such a thing: Danarius had made him so.

He kills with neither mercy nor malice, until Dorian steps in his way, and that stops him. Dorian is not his master, but neither is he someone Fenris is allowed to hurt. Not openly. Not without instructions. Not without regret, and apologies, and-

Danarius does not give him those instructions. Danarius is wounded. Danarius is vulnerable, powerless, unable to stand much less stop him.

He stops himself, and Dorian stares until the enormity of what he’s done- the bodies and the blood, the screams and the shame- hits him.

“Fenris, please” Dorian says, and a promise that had been made- to not escape until he could arrange for the both to leave, and to do so in a way that would not bring harm to the other slaves- came to the forefront of Fenris’ mind.

He had not wanted to escape then. Now, he must. Now, he runs. He leaves Dorian behind, well beyond the reach of any regret or apologies Fenris might have to offer him.

**Here was how Dorian remembered their last meeting:**

Fenris knows nothing but Danarius by design; it is only by luck that he had whatever time he had with the Fog Warriors, that he ever indulged in Dorian’s little fantasies of freedom. Luck, to judge by the number of bodies Fenris has strewn about the camp, is not enough.

But it is all he has, so he stands between Fenris and one of the few survivors left. And it works.

Fenris calms. Fenris takes control of himself. Even with the horror all around, with the horror dawning in his eyes, it is so _good_ to see Fenris without Danarius behind him. He never wants to see Fenris so controlled again.

He knows what he has to do.

“Fenris, please” and thankfully Fenris _knows_ before he has to say anything truly incriminating- Danarius will be furious enough later with only those two words. But for now, it is _good_. Fenris runs. Fenris escapes. Fenris _gets away_.

He affixes that memory in his mind, and then sets it aside. He’ll need it later.

He ignores the questions and demands from the surviving Fog Warriors- they’re practical people, and the moment he scoops up Danarius they know him for a lost cause. He doesn’t need to tell them to take what they can and move camp before they are discovered, and he doesn’t have to explain himself.

“He forgot he had choice, until I reminded him.” That’s how he would have explained it, had they asked. “And now _I_ don’t have a choice.”

If he doesn’t have Danarius with him, he will never leave this island, and if he never leaves this island, he will die, or worse. Slavery to Danarius- their 'marriage'- is a horror beyond imagining, but at least he had the luxury of his own thoughts, the ability to chose whether to bend only as far as he must or play nice in the hopes of a longer leash. The Qunari would not allow him that much- even if he had not known it before, Danarius’ demonstration with the saar-qamek has driven the point home.

He does have a choice, you see, and it’s the same choice his father gave him, with the same outcome: he’ll stay with the form of bondage he has some hope of ending.

**And here was how they met again:**

“There is nothing for me to reclaim,” Fenris bit out, dragging his eyes away from where Varania- his sister, the traitor- had fled. “I am-”

His eyes found Dorian, who was in process of feeling the back of his head for injuries. His fingers came away sticky with blood: he grimaced and wiped them clean on the inside hem of his vest, where the stain would be hidden from view.

“She’ll run straight to my father, if she has any sense at all,” Dorian said, meeting his gaze as, one by one, the others turned to him. “And she does have sense, and wit, and quite the ruthless streak. She’ll make a magister yet.”

“I don’t care what happens to her,” Fenris snapped, and immediately regretted it when Dorian stiffened in anticipation of a blow.

He wasn’t sure the others noticed that- Dorian smiled so widely when he retorted “Yes, well, I don’t care what happens to my father either, and yet…”

 _That_ was a bold-faced lie. Or it would have been, a decade ago, at least. Much might have changed for Dorian in that time; it certainly had for Fenris.

“Your father is a magister?” Anders asked with his usual lack of tact.

“Yes. It’s a long story,” Dorian replied.

“Well, Dorian,” Hawke said, the look on her face telling him that she knew and regretted that mistake almost instantly. “It is Dorian, right?”

“Though apparently, some of you know it already,” Dorian said, shooting him a glance that was less reproachful and more inquisitive than he was expecting it to be. Fenris shrugged slightly. “Fair’s fair, I suppose. He hasn’t shut up about you lot since before the new year.”

He held out his hand, and Hawke took it. She’d obviously intended to shake, but Dorian held their joined hands still, bending down low to kiss her knuckles. “I am indeed Dorian of House Pavus and House Danarius,” he said, before straightening. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear Champion.” It was an action performed in perfect keeping with Tevinter’s etiquette for a high-class courtesan and a potential client. Hawke, naturally, was oblivious to the meaning; she blushed, flattered by the gesture.

“I don’t care who you are, if you aren’t going to move those bodies or buy drinks, you can leave,” Corff yelled from behind the bar.

“We should probably take care of these guys,” Hawke said. “They might cause an actual serious diplomatic incident. And I think Varric might ‘accidentally’ shoot me if I run up any more on his tab.”

“Well then,” Dorian said, releasing Hawke’s hand. “I’d be happy to help- though I’d be a lot more effective if I could trouble one of your companions to remove this.” He gestured at the collar.

Hawke frowned, reaching out a hand to check the fastenings. Dorian went still and compliant beneath her touch. “Why one of my companions?” she asked.

“It requires magic to unlock, dear lady,” Dorian told her, nearly sighing with relief when she withdrew, and nodded at Anders to help.

“Let me take a look,” Ander said. “You might want to sit down for this.”

Dorian sat, bending his head forwards as the healer inspected the collar. “I’m pretty sure this is an electricity lock- you might feel a little jolt,” Anders warned him.

Dorian nodded, and Anders zapped the lock. The collar fell open, and all at once, something charged the air around him, causing his lyrium markings to ache and Merrill and Anders to start. Hawke frowned. Dorian let out a small, giddy laugh.

“Thank the Maker,” he said, looking up at Fenris with a shaky smile. It made the chaffing and bruises around his neck that much more obvious. “He hasn’t taken that thing off me in over _five years_. I’ve started to forget what the Fade feels like.”

“You might want me to heal this bump back here, before you do any spellcasting,” Anders said. “I’m not sure what five years of magic suppression might do, but concussions are generally bad to do magic with.”

“You’re the healer, then- Anders, of the Grey Wardens, right?” Dorian checked.

Anders blinked, surprise evident on his face. “That’s me,” he replied.

“Then better you than me,” Dorian said. “I’m good with Inferno magic, my barriers are excellent, and I’m a fair dab at necromancy, but healing is a little beyond my talents.”

He was watching Hawke out of the corner of his eye as he said it, gauging her reaction to his list of talents even as Anders began his work.

Had he been like this when the Fog Warriors found him? Fenris had not often thought of his own behavior before Danarius arrived to take him back, but now he wondered how much of the admiration he remembered feeling for the Fog Warriors- how much he wanted to help, to become one of them, even as he knew it was a fantasy- was merely… _this_. Merely the scrambling of a slave trying to make sense of world not designed for slaves, looking for the Master, looking for allies, looking to be of use, looking to not be tossed aside or crushed.

Then he wondered if Dorian even knew what he was doing, or why he was doing it. He would have to talk about that later. For now, there were bodies to be moved.

* * *

 

“So, did you escape from slavery as well?” Dorian asked Merrill as they heaved the bodies of Danarius’ men through Darktown.

“Oh, no,” Merrill said, shifting the corpse she was carrying slightly so she could jut her thumb up at her face. “I’m Dalish.”

“I was referring less to your tattoos and more to the scars on your wrists,” Dorian said.

Merrill let out a sharp gasp, which made Fenris look over at them- she didn’t normally have such an adverse reaction to being called out on her blood magic- and he saw Dorian holding up his arm, obviously showing off a scar of his own.

“When did Danarius start doing _that_?” he demanded.

“Blood magic?” Dorian pretended to misunderstand. “Well before I arrived on the scene. Probably well before I was even born.”

Fenris glared.

Dorian sighed. “It was just the once, a long time ago. I’m far too pretty to be used as a blood sacrifice except in exceptional circumstances, you know.” He turned back to Merrill before either Fenris could press for the details of those ‘exceptional circumstances’ or one of the others could comment. “So those are your own doing then?”

“Yes.”

“Do you always use your own blood?”

“Most of the time, unless one of the others have managed to bloody one of the people trying to kill us,” Merrill replied.

“So always your own blood, or the blood of someone trying to kill you.”

“Yes. Well, almost always. There was a man in the alienage last week who tried to force himself onto a woman- she’d scratched his face up, so I used that to make him stop,” Merrill explained.

“Well, I can’t deny the allure of poetic justice,” Dorian said.

“Does that mean Danarius didn’t know about me?” Merrill asked.

“Well, they knew there was a blood mage in your group, but they figured that it was either Anders-”

“No,” Anders said flatly.

“Or the Champion’s sister.”

“Also no. Bethany’s a Force Mage,” Hawke supplied. “She does swirling vortexes of doom, and whatever else the Wardens have been teaching her.”

“Hm. He also didn’t know you had two Wardens in your group.”

“I’ve left the Wardens,” Anders said.

“Can you do that?” Dorian asked.

“It isn’t encouraged.” The mage’s tone was grim enough that Fenris felt his hackles raised, waiting for another one of their arguments to start.

“So what did Danrius think he knew about me?” Merrill asked, before that could happen.

The awkward silence that was Dorian’s initial response spoke volumes.

“Nothing kind,” he eventually said.

“Oh,” Merrill said. “Because I’m an elf?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, in a way that spoke of more to come. “And moreover, an elf who- at least, from what Danarius was told- shares the Champion’s bed.”

“Oh, well. I do,” Merrill replied.

“It’s your bed too,” Hawke called out. “It’s our bed. There’s a joint ownership thing with the bed. And everything else too.”

“It _is_ called the Hawke Estate,” Merrill replied.

“You could be a Hawke,” she suggested shyly. “Or it could become the Hawke-Sabrae Estate. I could probably get someone to add a halla to the family crest.”

Anders heaved a put upon sigh. “Haven’t you two had your honeymoon already? Like, three times?”

“Would that have been a problem in Tevinter?” Merrill asked. “I mean, I suppose being an elf would be a problem already, but being an elf and a human?”

“Yes, though the inference Danarius’ men made was a bit- not _exactly_ -” Dorian fumbled.

“Relationships between people of the same gender are discouraged amongst the nobility in Tevinter,” Fenris supplied for him. “When two such people get together, the relationship is either purely physical, or that of master and slave.”

“Ooooh,” Merrill said, “So they thought I owned Hawke, then.”

Dorian let out a desperate little giggle, which quickly turned into the five of them stopping as he slumped against the wall, trying to get a hold of himself without losing his grip on the body he was carrying.

“Just so we’re all perfectly clear,” Dorian said, only somewhat breathlessly. “None of your merry band of adventurers is actually _possessed_ , correct?”

No one actually wanted to answer that question, which was enough answer in itself for Dorian to press his face into the palm of his hand, his shoulders shaking in a way that could be interpreted as suppressed laughter.

“ _De calcaria in carbonarium_ ,” he muttered: out of the kiln and into the furnace.

“Anders is an abomination and an ass,” Fenris hastened to explain. “Merrill is a malificar and a disaster in the making. Despite this, they are not entirely terrible people. I’ve been in a much better position with them than I was in Tevinter.”

“Thank you for that rousing endorsement, Fenris,” Anders said sarcastically.

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me,” Merrill said, sounding genuinely pleased.

“Do you think we can move forwards now?” Hawke asked. “I’m pretty sure this guy’s bladder just released.”

There was a general groan of disgust as they all began moving again. The lack of conversation lasted perhaps a minute before Dorian turned back to Merrill.

“So, where does a Dalish elf learn blood magic? Is it something passed down from the Dales or Old Arlathan? Are there books?”

“Books?” Anders repeated incredulously. “You can only learn blood magic by making a deal with a demon!”

“No, there are definitely books,” Dorian said. “I mean, the more complex and nasty rituals generally involve demons at some point, if only because as a whole the Magisters are a paranoid bunch and not inclined towards writing their secrets down, but there are blood magic manuals and- wait. There are books down here, right? Fenris! Please tell me I’m not lugging Danarius’ body into the sewers of a place with no books.”

“You are not,” Fenris told him. “ _I_ have Danarius’ body: _you_ are carrying one of his henchmen.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. Fenris wasn’t looking at him as he did so, but it was obvious all the same.

“We have books,” Merrill assured him. “Varric’s even an author.”

“Oh, good,” Dorian said. “Which one is Varric? The one dating the guard-captain?”

“Two things!” Hawke called out, her voice echoing as they reached the place where the foundry district’s run-off pooled. “First: I call dibs on telling Varric about that sentence. Second, you’re telling me that Danarius was making all kinds of frankly terrible conjectures about mine and Merrill’s relationship, but _didn’t_ notice the dwarf?”

“Evidentially,” Dorian replied.

They dumped the bodies into the pool. Anders, Merrill, and Hawke withdrew from the edge of the foul-smelling sludge quickly: Fenris and Dorian remained, watching.

“You know, I’ve pictured standing over his body quite a lot over the years,” Dorian said. “It was always a lot more emotionally satisfying in my head than it is reality.”

“Yes. I as well,” Fenris said. They continued staring until he thought to add. “There is still a great deal of alcohol left in the mansion in Hightown.”

Dorian turned to him with a smile. “I knew I missed you for reason.”

The guilt of leaving Dorian behind- leaving him with Danarius- surged anew, and he wasn’t quick enough to school his features against it, causing Dorian to hastily added “Don’t misunderstand- I’m very happy you managed to stay away. But still. It’s good to see you again.”

“Whatever you two are doing, can you do it somewhere else?” Hawke asked. “And if you’re, like, going to light the bodies on fire, can you just get it over with so we can go?”

“You know, that’s an excellent idea,” Dorian said.

Fenris sighed, took two steps back from the edge of the pool, and braced himself. Dorian did _something_ which make his hair stand up on end and enveloped the room in a blanket of light and heat that was blinding in its intensity.

Literally blinding. Anders needed to use his magic to restore their sight.

“ _What the fuck_?” Hawke yowled.

Most of what Fenris could see at that point was the green haze of Ander’s healing spell, but he didn’t need to see Dorian to read the panic in his tone as he said, “I think I might know what five years of magical suppression does to ones’ spellcasting.”

“It all comes out at once?” Anders guessed dryly. “You pictured lighting Danarius on fire often, then?”

“Several times a day for years,” Dorian confirmed.

“The _water_ is on _fire_ ,” Hawke hissed, her wild arm movements gradually coming back into focus. “You _burned the water_ , holy shit.”

“Oooh, really!” Merrill said, squinting. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“It’s probably the chemical detritus suspended in the water that’s actually burning, rather than the water itself,” Dorian told her.

“Perhaps we should leave before the guard comes to arrest us for arson,” Fenris suggested.

“Excellent idea,” Dorian agreed.

“Shit yeah, let’s go before Aveline shows up,” Hawke said, already fleeing.

\---

Much, much later that night, when Anders, Merrill and Hawke had staggered their way from the mansion, Fenris woke up to the sounds of someone moving downstairs. He grabbed his sword and was nearly in the kitchen before he remembered: Dorian.

He stopped, peering cautiously through the gap in the nearly-closed door. Dorian was hunched over in one of the chairs, his fingers laced together over the back of his neck.

“He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead,” he was chanting, like a mantra. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s-”

Fenris quickly back-tracked, and then headed towards the kitchen again, making sure to make noise on his way down the stairs this time.

“Ah, Fenris,” Dorian said as he entered, the only sign that he was feeling anything the puffiness around his eyes. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“I live here,” Fenris reminded him.

“Yes, exactly,” Dorian replied. “Where do you keep your food? The only thing in your larder is an extremely dead corpse, which I sincerely hope you don’t expect anyone to eat.”

“I get all my meals directly from the market,” Fenris said.

“Well, that’s no help at all,” Dorian muttered. “When does the market open?”

“Some hours from now.”

“Well, I suppose there’s not much point in being awake now, then, is there?” Dorian asked. “I’m heading back to bed. See you in the morning, Fenris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tevene** :  
>  _De calcaria in carbonarium_ = literally means "out of the lime-kiln and into the coal-furnace", a Roman proverb popularized by the theologian Tertullian which somehow was translated into English as "out of the frying pan and into the fire" and then stuck.


	3. Dorian: Burn-Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian has done some plotting, but still doesn't quite know what to do with himself now that Danarius is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter with a flashback in it- right at the start, as it happens.

_Danarius has started ordering Fenris to pin Dorian’s wrists down above his head for him again. It’s a game, it’s a trap, it’s another way of fucking with them both, and Dorian knows that. He’s become friendly with Fenris, since that last escape attempt, and Danarius would much rather they were rivals, competing for his favor, rather than allies, trying to help each other through._

_And it would be easy, it would be so easy to hate Fenris for this, but he refuses to allow Danarius to dictate his affections. Fenris, in his own way, is refusing as well: every time he flinches, Fenris squeezes Dorian’s wrists slightly, just enough pressure to reassure him that he isn’t suffering alone._

_Now if only Danarius would get it over with._

_‘Just do it.’ He wants to scream. He bites down on his tongue instead. ‘Just do it, just stick it in, or order Fenris to do it, or bring out the strap, or force one of your vile little potions on me, just do it, do whatever you’re planning to do, and get it fucking over with.’_

_He tastes blood, but if he starts begging for it now Danarius will never let him stop, so he keeps his mouth shut._

_Danarius keeps at it, soft strokes and feather-light touches broken up with the sharp scrape of nails and pinches to old bruises, so he can’t pretend this is anything other than what it is. But it’s still a shock when there’s a hand in his hair, wrenching his head back._

_“Look at me,” Danarius orders. “Look at-”_

He woke up to a pounding head, an empty bed, and a flood of mid-morning sun. He took a deep breath, and then two, and then took stock of himself.

His head was throbbing, but it was pretty much the only new pain he had: there was a bit of stiffness here, some soreness there, but it was old and already on the mend, rather than freshly inflicted, and even the headache was probably from alcohol rather than anything else.

Was he at the Alexius Estate? Gereon didn’t normally allow him to drink as much as he liked, but dear Felix would occasionally slip into the study with a bottle of brandy for them to share. This wasn’t one of Danarius’ rooms, certainly, the bed was too narrow and-

It was a reflex, calling a wisp from the Fade to dull the pain of the hangover. And it was such a shock when it actually worked that he nearly fell out of bed.

He had his magic back. _He had his magic back_. He stood, even as he reached back towards the collar’s fastenings to check for an obvious signs of failure, because if he didn’t move now, didn’t press this advantage before Danarius realized-

His hand hit the bare skin at the back of his neck and he remembered all at once. He sank back down on the edge of the bed.

Oh, right. He wasn’t wearing that _thing_ anymore. It was in a chest in the front hall of the mansion. The mansion in Kirkwall. The mansion where Fenris lived. Fenris, who had only yesterday reached into Danarius’ chest and crushed his heart.

Danarius was dead. He was dead. He was gone and never coming back. It was over now. It had ended. He was _free_.

What the fuck did he do now?

He had hoped that Fenris would be able to kill Danarius, of course, but he’d also hoped that he could convince Danarius to uncollar him so he could help in that fight. It hadn’t been something he’d been counting on. Apparently, he realized, he’d been counting on having to kill Danarius himself, and likely dying in the process. All of the plans he’d made before they’d left Minrathous had been made so he didn’t have to oversee their implementation, which only meant that he didn’t have to return now. But as to what he would do… the future stretched before him like an unmarked map, devoid of the obligations and worries that had dictated his life only yesterday.

Right, well. Plans. He should probably write to Mae and Felix and the others, and see if he couldn’t send a courier to overtake Varania before she could bring the news of Danarius’ demise to the Imperium on her terms rather than his. Could he afford that? Probably. He was- had been- Danarius’ legal husband, which made him his legal inheritor as well. He owned everything Danarius had owned.

 _Fasta vass_ , that probably included the seat in the Magisterium. By default, _he_ was Magister Danarius now.

That was a bit too large a thought for him to process at the moment, so he cast about for something smaller to focus on. Like his clothing. He should definitely find something else to wear, and possibly burn these clothes.

He could _literally_ burn these clothes. That was within his power again. He could take them off and light them on fire with a flick of his wrist right now, and no one would stop him. He wouldn’t be punished.

But, seeing as he didn’t want to wander around naked, he should probably find something else to wear first.

* * *

 

Before Hadrianna, Danarius’ apprentice had been a man called Viator. Dorian had injured him rather badly once, during one of his first escape attempts. He probably could have killed him- it probably would have spared him a bit of pain- but at the age of eighteen killing had been a very foreign concept, one of those things which was done by other people to other people. People were killed when they challenged his father to a duel; they were killed when one of the older students at the Circle of Vyrantium was incautious; they were killed across the Ventosus Straits whenever fighting with the Qunari flared up. They were not killed by Dorian Pavus- not then. Not even when he knew he wouldn't have been given the same courtesy if their positions had been reversed.

Dorian remembered Viator as being rather larger than he was, but he’s fairly certain the robes he’d found in the armoire three doors down from his room had been his- they were certainly old enough- and they fit Dorian rather well. There were also several scarves strewn about, which he couldn’t remember _anyone_ wearing, but he wrapped one around his neck nevertheless: Danarius had yanked on his collar so often over the years that he’d stopped feeling it, but to judge by his appearance in the mirror, he hadn’t stopped bruising because of it.

He bunched his old outfit up and made his way into the kitchen, which he remembered as having a large fireplace that, though obviously not maintained, could probably still have something burned in it without lighting the whole mansion on fire. Unlike what he remembered, there was food laid out on the kitchen table: bread and fruit and large glass of what smelled like mint tea. There was a note propped up against the bread, written in a shaky, nearly illegible hand: _help yourself_.

Dorian picked the note, noticing that there was something a bit more legible on the other side of it- a drawing, done in the same shaky quill strokes as the note itself, of a loaf of bread and a steaming bowl of soup. It was one of the pictograms used by slaves in Minrathous, to let new purchases know what they were in for: this one meant ‘you’ll be provided with enough food’.

Dorian tossed his clothes into the fireplace for later, and then sat down to eat, turning the note over and over again, studying first the pictogram and then the writing, and then the pictogram once again.

Fenris came back shortly thereafter; Dorian heard him enter and immediately abandoned his breakfast in search of answers.

“Fenris!” He called out, as he entered the foyer.

“Good, you’re awake,” Fenris replied. “Dorian, this is- what are you wearing?” he added, just as Dorian blurted out “You’ve learned to write!”

Fenris blinked. “I- yes, I can write, now. Hawke helped.”

“And I’m wearing the pick of your truly pitiful stock of clothing, which is all no less than fifteen years out of date. I mean, look at these _lapels_. They haven’t been this large since I was a teenager! It’s like I’ve got wings or sails or something.”

There was an unfamiliar laugh, and a golem of a woman in full armor stepped into the foyer. “That seems like it should make the clothes more like three years out of date.”

“I, uh-” He floundered. “No, it’s- I’m thirty.”

The woman made an appreciative noise in the back of her throat, and he turned to Fenris for help.

Fenris had his face buried in the palm of his hand, which was much less helpful than he would have liked. “Dorian, this is Aveline Vallen, the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall, and Sebastian Vael, a lay brother in the Chantry here,” he introduced, which was at least familiar ground- Sebastian's name even rung a bell. Dorian unstuck his feet from the floor and went to shake hands. “Aveline, Sebastian, this is Dorian Pavus. He’s… a friend.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintances,” Dorian said, taking first Aveline’s hand, and then Sebastian’s. This was the point where he’d normally invite them into the sitting room, but that wasn’t exactly an option here. For one thing, even if he _had_ inherited the deed for this place, it was Fenris’ home, not his; for another, he wasn’t even sure there was a sitting room, let alone one in good enough shape to sit in.

“Let’s take this upstairs,” Fenris suggested. Aveline and Sebastian seemed to know what he meant by that, so Dorian followed in their wake, stepping over three dead bodies as he did so.

“Were there this many corpses in here last night?” he hissed at Fenris.

“Unless you dragged more in, yes,” Fenris replied.

“There is a mushroom growing out of that one’s eye socket,” he pointed out, because really, how had he overlooked _that_? He was a bloody necromancer, for crying out loud.

“I think Hawke’s named that one Fred,” Sebastian remarked.

Though it didn't fit with any of Danarius' intelligence about the Champion, what little interaction he’d had with the woman left him in no doubt of the veracity of that statement. “And you’ve been living in this for five, nearly six years?” he asked Fenris.

“I’ve been trying to remain inconspicuous,” Fenris said.

“Yes, the dead bodies really do lend an air of inoccupation to the place,” Dorian said. “You couldn't have just dragged them into-” Wait, he probably shouldn’t mention the dead body drop point in front of Guard-Captain Vallen. “-a compost heap or something or that nature?”

“That’s actually why I’m here,” Aveline said.

“What, composting?” he asked.

“Let’s sit down first.”

They were apparently sitting down in the master bedroom, which was a lot cleaner and more obviously lived in than the foyer- clearly, _this_ was where Fenris lived, with the small table, mismatched set of chairs, wrinkled bedcovers, and a fire dying in the grate.

He flicked his wrist, intending to rekindle it, and initially send the flames so high into the air that they singed the mantle. He winced, and added ‘fine control exercises’ to his list of things to do.

“Sorry,” he muttered. How embarrassing- he hadn’t needed to go through those exercises since he was _eight_.

“Oh, Fenris, really?” Aveline said. Dorian looked between her and Fenris, not entirely sure what had gone wrong. “I expect this sort of thing from Hawke, not you.”

“Not another bloody apostate,” Sebastian groaned, which cleared that up, before turning to him and adding. “No offense.”

“Oh, none taken,” Dorian said. “And I’m still on the registry at the Circle of Vyrantium, if that helps.”

“Legally speaking, yes, it does,” Aveline said sitting down. Dorian followed suit. “Practically speaking, Fenris had told us that you were Danarius’ slave.”

“He was,” Fenris said.

“Practically speaking, yes,” Dorian said. “Legally speaking, I’m fairly certain there’s a page in Minrathous’ _Liberalum Draconem_ with my name on it that lists my legal status as ‘strangled in loopholes’.”

“Dorian’s situation was more complex than my own,” Fenris said firmly. He wasn’t sure if that was warning for Dorian not to say anything more, or for Aveline and Sebastian to ask no more questions.

“That’s a good a summation as any,” Dorian agreed. Right, so he was going to have to figure out who knew what and who was allowed to know what sooner rather than later. Something else to add to his list then.

“Legal status is what I’m here about,” Aveline said, obviously not oblivious to the byplay so much as determined to not be interested. “Fenris is technically squatting here, and as I understand it, now you’ll be here as well. This place is falling down as it is, and I can’t keep the seneschal from declaring it a hazard for very much longer. And you’re a mage. Given the situation with the Templars, that could be even more tricky.”

Dorian looked between her and Fenris, and when neither of them gave him any clear indication of what was expected of him, he folded. “Might I have a word with Fenris for a moment?”

“I… suppose,” Aveline said.

Dorian stood and stepped back out into the hall, followed closely by Fenris. “What am I allowed to tell them?”

“You may tell them whatever you wish,” Fenris replied, which was not helpful.

“That’s not helpful, Fenris,” Dorian said. “I mean- what do they know already?”

“They know that you were Danarius’ slave, and that our friendship dates back to when I was Danarius’ slave,” Fenris said. “I’ve only spoken of the nature of your…” He trailed off, looking uncertain.

“My farce of a marriage?” Dorian supplied.

“Yes. I told only Hawke about that. However, Merrill and Anders will have drawn their own conclusions from Danarius’ remarks, and I would not anticipate them keeping those conclusions to themselves,” Fenris warned him.

“I can deal with that,” Dorian assured him. “I meant more along the lines of: do these people know Danarius is dead, and will telling them get anyone in trouble?”

“Oh,” Fenris said, sounding faintly amused. “They know, and they don’t care. Hawke kills a lot people, slavers in particular. Aveline and Sebastian are part of our group- they would have helped, had they been there.”

“Your merry band of adventurers,” Dorian said. It was a turn of phrase he’d taken up because it sounded amusing, and with every new thing he learned about them, its entertainment value only seemed to grow. “With surprisingly high connections.”

“Hawke _is_ the Champion of Kirkwall,” Fenris pointed out.

“I’m beginning to see why,” Dorian said, turning back to master bedroom.

“Got your story straight?” Aveline asked, clearly expecting- and willing- to be lied to.

“No, but I’ve received assurances that I can be honest with you,” Dorian replied settling back down, with a great deal more confidence than he stood up with. He was still an Altus, and even with people who _knew_ , everyone had to pretend to be polite with him while they were in public- or discussing legalese, as it happened. This was something he knew how to do.

“That’s… good to know,” Aveline said, suddenly sounding much more doubtful.

“As a result of the aforementioned legal complexities, I inherited everything from Danarius when he died. Everything, all of it, including this mansion. So there’s no squatting, technical or otherwise, and with Fenris’ permission I’ll be getting rid of the corpses, effecting repairs, stocking the larder and suchlike.” Or transferring the deed over to him- it would depend on whether or not he actually wanted the place, or if an elf with a mansion would be a bigger target than he felt like being.

“Fenris,” Aveline said.

When Fenris didn’t respond Dorian turned to look at him.

“Everything,” Fenris repeated slowly, adding, when Dorian didn’t catch on “Everyone?”

“ _Vishante kaffas_. No. Everyone’s freed, Fenris, you know me better than that,” Dorian protested.

“You can only free someone in the presence of a judge,” Fenris reminded him.

“Or via your will.”

“You are not dead.”

“It’s not in my will. Well, it is in my will, but the will that will be enacted is Danarius’ will, not mine.”

“And Danarius would never free even one of his slaves in his will, let alone me, let alone all of them,” Fenris said, very slowly, as though talking to a child.

“Absolutely he wouldn’t. I’m sure he would have happily ordered us all thrown onto his pyre, if that were still legal,” Dorian replied. “Which is why I did it for him.”

“You changed your master’s will?” Sebastian checked, reminding him of what kind of audience he had.

“Legal complexities,” Dorian repeated, sitting up straighter. “And a few technical illegalities, I’ll admit, though all for a good cause.”

“And Danarius never discovered this?” Fenris asked.

“Danarius never had the chance to. I arranged it while we were preparing to leave Minrathous with Varania,” Dorian told him. “Which reminds me: I’ll need someone to recommend a fast courier. This should all still work if she’s the one delivering the news of Danarius’ demise, but I’d rather not give her the advantage.”

“No one will believe that Danarius truly freed his slaves in his will,” Fenris pointed out.

“Not at first, no,” Dorian said. “But I’ve bribed and otherwise taken care of enough clerks to ensure that it will pass without contest. Then people will reach for justifications, and well. You know how the company one keeps can influence a man. Perhaps Danarius shouldn’t have married such a soft-hearted fool.”

“You _are_ a soft-hearted fool,” Fenris declared, sinking onto the bed with a pole-axed expression on his face. “A soft-hearted fool who is very lucky we managed to kill Danarius before he could uncover your machinations. Did you even consider how he would react if he discovered them?”

“You’re assuming rather a lot,” Dorian said, as though he hadn't spent many sleepless nights fretting about that very same thought.

“Oh?”

“As though I’d stop my machinations when we left Minrathous,” Dorian said with an exaggerated eye roll. “I’m an Altus: we invented machinations, along with every other form of depravity.”

“You’ll get no argument from me there,” Fenris promised.

“Speaking of,” Dorian said, turning back to Aveline, who looked torn between confusion and amusement. “I don’t know if this is part of the guard process, but if you’ve gotten as far as confiscating his possessions, I’d make sure no one drinks the wine. Githago is neither a quick nor a painless poison, even if it does ferment well.”

Fenris made a surprised grunt. “That was risky, considering.”

'Considering how much Danarius enjoyed your ‘too drunk to fight back’ look', Dorian mentally finished for him. “Yes, well,” he said out loud. “Leaving the Imperium took him well outside most of his ordinary protections. I wasn’t about to let that opportunity slip by.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aveline replied. “I assume you’ll be able to prove your claim, if it comes to that.”

“I have a birthright,” Dorian assured her. Though, he'd probably burned Danarius', so his was still set into the collar. “It will probably have to be reset into something less restrictive, but it is in my legal possession, and should answer for any requests for validation.”

“Good,” she said, standing. “Now, I have to stop my men from poisoning themselves, so I’ll take my leave. I’ll see the three of you later?”

“I’m sure we will,” Sebastian replied.

“Aveline,” Fenris said, nodding in farewell.

“It’s not as though I have other plans,” Dorian told her with a jaunty wave.

She left them alone, the silence rapidly becoming awkward as the three men looked at each other.

“I assume you’re here to visit with Fenris?” Dorian asked Sebastian, standing back up. “I can just go finish my breakfast. And then I suppose I should start drafting letters.”

“No, no, I’m actually here for you,” Sebastian said, standing as well. “I just wanted to extend my services as a lay brother to you, Dorian. If you ever need to talk, my door is open.”

“Well, uh,” He turned, almost involuntarily, to Fenris for guidance again.

“He’s actually like this,” Fenris assured him with a snort.

“I’ll consider it,” he told Sebastian.

“That’s all I ask,” Sebastian said, before taking his leave as well. Dorian watch him go, and suddenly remembered why his name was familiar.

He waited until he heard the front door close before rounding on Fenris. “Is that Sebastian Vael as in the Vaels of Starkhaven?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?” Fenris asked.

“I think we might have attended a bacchanalia together once, around the time lapels this big were in style,” he replied, causing Fenris to laugh.

It was very tempting, the idea of sitting back down and joking with Fenris for however long they could, but he should probably eat more, and he really should draft those letters, and then…

Fine control exercises? He supposed he could sit down and talk to Fenris first about what he should and should not say- he apparently had his own discretion to rely on when it came to his own experiences, but Danarius hadn't been exactly chaste in his treatment of Fenris either, and he doubted Fenris wanted people knowing that- and then move on to the other three things on his list but then…

“Was it like this for you, when you escaped?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Confusing? Strange? Frightening?” Dorian suggested. “I don’t really know what I’m doing, Fenris. There’s nothing I’m _supposed_ to be doing, and…”

“It wasn’t like that for me,” Fenris admitted. “Danarius was hounding my every move, after all. I had plenty to keep me busy.”

“Well, I suppose I don’t have that to worry about, at least,” he said.

Danarius was dead. It still didn’t feel real.

Fenris stood, walking over to where Dorian was hovering over his chair, and placed his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “I don’t know what the future might bring. But you could certainly do worse, than to be here. Hawke would have you join us, if you were willing, I’m sure.”

“The confusion won’t be an issue, I take it?” he asked.

“It is nearly a requirement, as I understand it.” Fernis squeezed his shoulder briefly, and then let go.

“Well then, I suppose I’ll have to tell her that she has another mage at her disposal,” Dorian said. “Once I manage to get myself back up to snuff, that is. And finished eating, I’m famished.”

“It is nearly midday,” Fenris pointed out. “There is a decent restaurant not far from here if you wanted lunch.”

“That’s not a terrible idea,” Dorian mused. “Though, I would like to see if I couldn’t get some halfway decent clothing first.”

“I doubt Kirkwall has much in the way of contemporary Tevinter fashions,” Fenris warned him.

“At this point I’ll take anything that’s not over a decade old or carries the subtle stench of sexual slavery,” Dorian said. “Though if we’re going shopping, I should get my birthright off of the collar, and make sure that I have access to Danarius’ funds.”

His stomach grumbled, and he sighed. “Breakfast,” he decided. “I’m definitely finishing breakfast first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** :  
> The flashback in question is a not especially graphic dream/memory of Danarius raping Dorian, with Fenris holding him down. 
> 
> **Tevene** :  
>  _Liberalum Draconem_ : "Liberalum" is that big book of genealogy Dorian wants so he can figure out Corypheus' name. "Draconem" is my attempt at making it a book specifically about mages active in the Dragon Age.


	4. Hawke: Disco Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there ain't no party like a Hawke Estate party because Hawke doesn't know how to throw a fucking party.

So, planning fancy parties wasn’t really Hawke’s thing. It’s a fact which should not be a huge shock coming from a girl who grew up a peasant in Lothering and entered Kirkwall as a refugee, and yet, somehow, people were still surprised.

People here mostly meaning Bodhan and Orana. Merrill had buried herself in a catalog of fancy cakes and she hadn’t seen her since, and Sandal was, in addition to being Sandal, preoccupied with the fact that a scary lady kept coming into his room at night and laughing.

Which, to be fair, was _pretty fucking concerning_.

“Your son can’t just be having nightmares, right? I mean, he’s a dwarf.” She wasn’t sure which would be worse, come to think of it: Sandal starting to dream, like those who potentially _had magic_ could, or that there was an actual lady-like entity which kept breaking into her house to creep the poor kid out.

Bodhan was a little too used to weird, though, because he just told Sandal to knock it off and then started yammering about place settings and drawing room entertainment and that was the point at which she realized that she hadn’t actually invited the guest of honor to his own party.

“Shit,” she said, grabbing Merrill by the shoulder. “Come on, I’ve forgot to do something and you make me feel less embarrassed about myself.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Merrill protested. “And I haven’t decided on the cakes.”

“I meant that as a statement about the emotional support I draw from your presence, not as a comparison between our levels of awkward, and I’m heading to Fenris’ mansion so guess what I forgot to do.” She sang the last few words for good measure.

Merrill burst into giggles, and let herself be hauled upright. “Oh, _Hawke_.”

“Yes, I know, I’m terrible and I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said, handing Merrill her staff.

“We’re going to Fenris’ mansion,” Merrill reminded her, reaching up to brush a braid that had escaped her ponytail from her face. “Where you’re going to invite the both of them to the party.”

“Damn right we are,” Hawke replied.

She waved at Orana and Bodhan on the way out, both of whom were trying to not look relieved that the pair of them were getting out of the way and failing miserably. Hawke sighed. At least someone knew what was going on.

* * *

 

Fenris’ mansion was locked, which was a fairly recent thing that had started happening. It had something to do with the fact that Dorian had inherited the place, and therefore it was no longer a squat. There had been some mention of repairs- actually, the roof looked like it had already been patched up- and she’d noticed the last time she’d stopped by that the bodies were gone.

Burned away, actually. The scorch marks had still been visible, which was kind why she’d come that time. It had been Aveline’s idea- well, more like Aveline’s rant. It had been all intense flashes of light and the smell of smoke attracting the ire of the neighbors and then Fenris had threatened the fire brigade, and then the Templars had showed up and while Dorian was proving that he was not an apostate one the Templars got the bright idea that he might have put Fenris under a blood thrall and- look, she wasn’t saying that that was what was happening, but really, didn’t she find it a bit odd that Fenris had just shacked up with a mage- a mage from Tevinter, no less?

Well shit yeah, of course she did: she’d met Fenris. She’d met Fenris nearly six years ago now. Six years was more than enough time to become acquainted with someone’s sharp edges, and when it came to mages- especially mages from Tevinter- Fenris was all sharp edges.

Fenris did actually have other qualities besides his instinctual distrust towards mages and all mage-kind. Loyalty, for instance. A burning desire to ensure that no one suffered as he had suffered, for another. And it wasn’t as though his hatred of mages was an insurmountable thing: while she wouldn’t go as far as to say that he got along well with Anders and Merrill, he would work with them, and that initial distrust when they’d first cleared out Danarius’ mansion aside he got along just fine with Bethany.

She imagined, without anyone needing to go through any details, that belonging to Danarius was every bit the traumatic bonding experience their early years in Kirkwall had been and then some.

What Dorian’s deal was she couldn’t yet guess. She’d barely known the man for a month, and he spent most of his time in Fenris’ mansion. In all her interactions with him, he’d had only two modes: that of a charming, intelligent young man with a sarcastic streak the size of the Gallows Courtyard, and then that of someone doing a nervous impression of the said man while constantly looking to Fenris for direction.

She worried, about the whole Fenris-and-Dorian situation, less because she thought they would consciously hurt each other, and more because they were clinging to each other as familiar faces without much thought as to why. Fenris had wanted to connect with his past- he never would have reached out to Varania otherwise- and Dorian was a part of his past, if not so far back that his memories were a hazy. Dorian, meanwhile, had just come out of the other side of what was by all accounts a terrible and prolonged shitfest, so was it any wonder he was sticking close to the only friend he had when arrived in Kirkwall?

But that was besides the point. The point was that Fenris was now locking his door, which meant that she and Merrill wasted several minutes banging on it before she gave up and picked the lock.

There were still scorch-marks on the walls around where dearly departed Fred used to be, but someone had clearly been scrubbing at them, which was initially the only sign of life in the place. There were more as they went deeper into the house: dirty dishes piled near the sink, a book left open on the arm of a chair, and as they grew nearer to it, the sound of clanging metal coming from the little cloistered courtyard, now able to be entered after years of being overgrown with vines.

“- surprised Danarius would allow you this,” Fenris was saying as they drew nearer.

“Surprised he wanted to show off the son of Magister Pavus, sweating on the training grounds like some plebian Soporati thug?” Dorian replied.

“Less surprised, when you phrase it that way,” Fenris admitted.

“And if I take my shirt off, the view gets even better.”

Fenris laughed. Fenris actually _laughed_. She turned to Merrill for confirmation that she wasn’t hallucinating, and was gratified that she was not alone in her confusion.

The door to the courtyard had been left ajar- judging by the state of the hinges, that was probably a necessity- and as they walked through they could see what was going on.

Fenris and Dorian were sparring: Dorian with a puny staff with a blunted blade on the end of it, Fenris with the dull practice sword Aveline had given him in the hopes of getting him to train with her men. Dorian was indeed shirtless, as was Fenris.

“Oh my,” Merrill said, watching with wide eyes.

At her remark, Fenris looked towards them, and Dorian took advantage of his distraction to sweep his legs out from under him. Fenris snarled, and threw himself back into the fight, ignoring them once again. Merrill continued to watch, riveted. Hawke, who really wasn’t the ‘shirtless men fighting’ type, watched Merrill instead.

“You absolutely cannot tell Isabela that they do this,” she warned her after a moment.

Merrill nodded, clearly not paying her the slightest bit of attention.

“I’m serious, Merrill. If she learns about this she’ll start selling tickets, and then Aveline will come complaining to _me_ when Fenris sticks his hand in someone’s chest to scare them off.”

Merrill continued to pay her no mind, so she sighed, and resigned herself to waiting until the boys had finished their fight. It was over fairly quickly: Fenris managed to knock Dorian off-balance, and then snatch his staff away.

“Alright, I yield!” Dorian said, raising his arms. “I yield! _Me dedo_!”

Fenris grunted and handed him his staff back; Merrill burst into applause. “Oh, bravo!” she called.

Dorian bowed with a flourish. Fenris rolled his eyes. “Whatever you need, I am ready to assist.”

“Well, good, because I need you to come to party. Both of you. It’s his party actually,” she added, pointing to Dorian.

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’ve missed my nameday by several months,” Dorian told her.

“It’s not a nameday party, so much as a ‘welcome to the group’ party. Happening tomorrow night. Which I forgot to invite you to, because I’m me.”

Dorian blinked.

“Welcome to the group,” Fenris told him dryly.

“So you’ll come?” Hawke asked. “I don’t have to go home and tell people to stop rearranging things?”

“Well, I can hardly miss my own party,” Dorian said, giving Fenris one of his sidelong glances.

Fenris shrugged. “Will Anders be there?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hawke admitted. “I figured this would be a good opportunity for us to all get to know each other a little.”

“You’ll be seated far away from each other during dinner and there will be a lot of wine,” Merrill added.

“A tolerable arrangement,” Fenris acquiesced. “What time are we expected?”

Hawke looked to Merrill. Merrill looked back in confusion, so she just pulled a number out of the air. “Sevenish?”

“We’ll be there,” Fenris promised.

* * *

 

The party turned out to be less of an opportunity for Dorian to meet everyone and vice-versa and more of a reunion than she’d planned it to be, though considering how little planning she’d actually done that wasn’t a big surprise.

“Well, this looks familiar,” Dorian remarked as he and Fenris entered the main hall.

“I think when your people built Kirkwall they decided to standardize the floor plans to compensate for how fucked up the streets are,” Hawke said.

There was a sharp gasp from behind her and she turned to see Orana staring at her. She frowned- Orana had been utterly scandalized by her language and basically everything else when she’d first started working for her, but that had been years ago now.

Then it turned out that she was actually looking behind her.

“D-dorian?” she asked.

“Orana!” Dorian cried, pushing past Hawke. “You’re alive! I thought for certain Hadriana…”

“We did tell everyone who this party was for, right?” Hawke asked Merrill out of the corner of her mouth.

“I thought we did,” Merrill whispered back.

“She almost did,” Orana told Dorian, tears welling up in her eyes. “Everyone else- Papa- _oh_ , is- is Master Dan-”

“He’s dead,” both Dorian and Fenris told her, the latter giving the Hawke the stink-eye.

“I did tell her _that_ ,” Hawke protested. “I have a very clear memory of telling her that Danarius was dead.”

“Sometimes when you say someone’s dead, you just mean that you’re very angry with them,” Orana explained.

“Your mother is going to be so happy to hear you’re alive,” Dorian told her. “When Hadriana stopped reporting back to Danarius, we all feared the worst.”

“Is she alright?” Orana asked.

“Alive and well, as of when I left Minrathous,” Dorian assured her. “And if I’ve arranged things correctly, then she’ll very shortly be a free woman in Magister Tilani’s employ. I can help you draft a letter to her, if you wish.”

“Yes,” Orana sobbed, all but launching herself at the man and bursting into tears.

“There, there,” Dorian said, awkwardly patting her on the back with a somewhat terrified expression on his face. “This isn’t bad news. Surely no cause for tears?”

Orana sniffed.

“There’s some writing supplies over there,” Hawke told him, pointing the writing desk. “Fenris, could you come over here for a moment?”

“I did not realize that they would have known each other,” Fenris said as soon as they were in the dining room.

“Well, neither did I so…” Hawke said, handing him a spare table leaf. “Help me bump out the table a bit more?”

Fenris looked confused, but complied without question, which at least spared her the awkwardness of explaining why. She wasn’t comfortable with the whole ‘having servants’ thing at the best of times, and now that he guest of honor was apparently already friends with one of them, there was no way they would be eating separately.

By the time they’d hammered the table into shape, adding the extra places between Anders and Fenris for everyone’s comfort, the others had started arriving, meaning that the foyer was a complete mess. Merrill was trying to introduce everyone to Dorian, who was trying to take down Orana’s increasingly giddy letter, while Ser Woofus ran around, barking wildly at all the excitement.

At least Sandal wasn’t swinging from the chandelier. Yet. As soon as she thought about it, she ran upstairs to make sure that he wasn’t about to, and managed to catch him as he wriggled free of his father’s grip.

“Sorry. It’s all the noise, he gets very excited,” Bodhan explained.

“I understand,” Hawke said, setting Sandal back down, but keeping her hands on his shoulders. “Tell you what, Sandal, just for tonight, you can jump on the bed.”

Sandal’s face brightened, and when she let him go he immediately ran for her bedroom.

Bodhan sighed. “He’s going to be at it for days now.”

“I’ll consider that a fair trade for him not causing the chandelier to crash on everyone,” Hawke told him.

She didn’t go back downstairs just yet, partially because there wasn’t really that much room, mostly so she had a chance to hang back and observe.

“You’ve met Aveline, haven’t you Dorian?” Merrill called out.

“Yes,” Dorian said, barely looking over his shoulder to make sure it wasn’t some other Aveline. “Hello Aveline, and Aveline’s muscle-bound friend.”

“This is my husband, Donnic,” Aveline replied.

“Hello, Mr. Vallen,” he replied, not looking up this time until the room burst into chuckles.

“It’s still technically Mr. Hendyr, actually,” Donnic said.

“Oh. Sorry,” he apologized.

Varric and Isabela arrived, which, as Hawke determined, meant that everyone was here. So, there were officially too many people in the foyer.

“Alright everyone!” she called out. “We should probably move this into dining room! So get on that!”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Isabela replied, giving her a two-fingered salute that she returned as pure reflex. Merrill successfully herded pretty much everyone into the dining room, with the exception of Dorian, who remained seated at the writing desk, and Orana who stood next to him looking very torn.

“You,” she told Orana. “Officially have the night off. Finish this up or set it aside until later, it’s up to you two. Everyone’s places have been marked so you’ll know where to sit.”

“The fly pies are still in the oven,” Orana said.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“They’ll need to be fried next.”

“I can do that!”

She didn’t really know how to do that, so it was kind of a guilty relief when Orana appeared in the kitchen a minute later to walk her through the process.

By the time things were all ready to be served and not even a little on fire, everyone was engrossed in conversation- or rather, listening to Varric and Dorian yell at each other from across the table. When they’d come up with seating arrangements, they’d put Varric next to Anders, seeing as he was one of the few people who talk with him for extended periods of time without things becoming an argument about mage rights. Dorian, as someone who was more Fenris’ friend than anyone else’s at that point, had been seated next to the elf, which put them pretty far apart.

“You’re joking!” Varric shouted.

“I am not joking!” Dorian replied. “Maevaris Tilani is a very good friend of mine! I cannot believe she didn’t tell me about you!”

“What’s to tell?”

“If I’d known she’d had family in Kirkwall, I’d have sent some kind of warning to Fenris!” Dorian replied. “If she’d known Fenris was hanging around you, she’d probably have suggested it!”

“Like I’m going to tell my cousin-in-law the magister about Broody here!” Varric declared. “That is a recipe for disaster!”

“Speaking of, here comes Hawke’s cooking!” Merrill said.

“Thank you, love,” Hawke replied, sticking out her tongue. “And this is mostly Orana’s work. So, thank you, Orana.”

“Thank you, Orana,” the room chorused, causing the elf in question to blush.

Conversation died down as everyone dug into their food. Hawke hid her wince behind her wine goblet as she realized that Dorian had the habit Fenris and Anders had each recently dropped, of palming the dinner rolls, pastries, and other self-contained foodstuffs and tucking them about his person for later, but otherwise the actual eating portion of dinner went off without a hitch.

“So, Dorian,” Anders said, when he’d finished eating dinner, and was immediately hushed by every other occupant of the room except for a startled-looking Dorian.

“Time and a place, Blondie,” Varric said. “This is the time and place to eat good food and drink good wine. Plot the revolution some other time.”

“Actually, I do have one question for Anders,” Dorian said. To his credit, he did not back down when everyone turned to him in trepidation.

“Oh?” Anders asked.

“Yes,” Dorian confirmed, before adding in a very serious tone of voice, “Are you aware that you’re wearing a mourning suit from the Steel Age?”

“Uh…” was Anders’ eloquent replied, nearly inaudible under Isabela’s snorting laugh.

“Fenris, have you been letting this man walk around in- ow!” Dorian sentence ended in a yelp when Fenris, in a move that seemed to shock no one more than himself, flicked him behind the ear. For a moment they stared at one another, a picture of comical shock.

“Really, Fenris?” Dorian said once the moment had ended, reaching for his goblet.

“My apologies. I don’t know where that came from,” Fenris explained, quickly turning his attention back down to his plate.

“Like I’m a bloody teenager again!”

“Please don’t start throwing the wine.”

“I am _not_ going to start throwing wine,” Dorian said, rolling his eyes as he drained the remainder of said wine from his goblet. “For one thing, I’m not a teenager, for another, this is Hawke’s wine, not Danarius’.”

“Well, I quite like your coat,” Merrill told Anders.

“You do?” he asked, surprised.

“It’s very lively! Like a crow in the middle of anting!”

“That’s… that’s great. Thanks, Merrill,” he replied.

“I wouldn’t have called them ‘lively’,” Isabela mused. “Bedraggled, maybe. Or just… fluffy.”

“You’re not helping,” Anders muttered.

“I tried to warn you, Blondie,” Varric said, sotto voice.

“You’re so not helping.”

Hawke surreptitiously moved more of her wine down towards Fenris and Dorian’s end of the table. They were going through it rather fast.

For a time, it looked like that was going to be the worst of it. People started migrating from the dining room to the sitting room. Orana sat down to play the lute, pausing only slightly when Dorian started singing along in Tevene, and then slightly longer to join Fenris in laughing when the song took a sudden turn for the bawdy. Or so she gathered from the banter. She didn’t actually understand Tevene.

Varric sat down next to Dorian and they began working on a suitable translation into Trade- not an easy thing when there were so many homophones and puns in the lyrics, apparently- and Fenris and Donnic started talking Diamondback. Hawke settled down next to Merrill, half-listening to Isabela’s wildly inaccurate explanation of what a _bacchanalia_ was.

Though, given how Sebastian was trying very hard not to appear like he was listening, and how red he was turning, maybe it wasn’t as wildly inaccurate of it first sounded. He did have a life before becoming Choir Boy.

Lulled by the good food and wine, she must have drifted off, because when she looked up Orana was all but asleep, the fire was dying in the grate, and Fenris, Dorian, and Anders were no longer in the room.

“Crap,” she swore. “Did they leave-leave, or did they just step outside?”

“Did who- oh,” Merrill said.

“Dorian headed into the front hall an hour ago. Anders went after him maybe ten minutes ago, and Fenris followed him out,” Isabela reported.

“Crap,” she repeated, standing up. “No, no, you keep on- whatevering,” she said, when Merrill and Isabela made to follow suit. “It’s my house, I’ll deal with it.”

“I thought you said it was our house?” Merrill called after her, though she settled back down.

“You have to say yes first,” Hawke reminded her. And then they’d have to hire a wedding planner because clearly she did not know how to party. Or throw a party. The actual partying bits she could get just fine, but planning wasn’t her strong suit.

Dorian was in the kitchen, alone, which was a blessing, sort of. She still had to find Anders and Fenris before they had an argument loud enough to give Meredith provocation to come down with the Templars and the fact that Aveline was here would reflect poorly on the guard because of whatever the fuck it was that was going on in Meredith’s head and just. Ugh. _Politics_. If someone had warned her about this before she was made Champion…

Well. She still would have taken down the Arishok, because the alternative was what, letting the Qunari run roughshod over Kirkwall and kicking off an Exalted March? Letting them take Isabela? Fuck that noise. But she sure as shit would have skipped town afterwards.

“You know, I’ve rather grown to like kitchens,” Dorian said. He was leaning against the table, facing the pantry which she’d left open in her haste to get dinner served.

“Oh?” Hawke asked.

Dorian nodded. “Warm, full of food- what’s not like?”

“Fair point,” Hawke said, settling down next to him.

The stood there for a moment, staring at the food.

“You can take some of it home with you, if you like,” Hawke said. “Actually, I’m going to insist that you take some of the cakes, we went a little overboard with those.”

Dorian looked skeptical.

“It also occurs to me that I’ve never seen Fenris stock his house with more than dead guys and wine, so,” she added.

“Yes, this is outside of _both_ our areas of expertise,” Dorian replied. “He’s been trying to keep the mansion looking unoccupied, and keeping house wasn’t exactly one of my marital duties.”

Hawke didn’t have anything smart to say to that, and for once, she managed to not say anything stupid either.

“Though I might be slightly less useless at it than he is. Eirene- that’s Orana’s mother, Eirene- she runs the kitchens back in Danarius’ Minrathous Estate. She used to let me hang around for an hour or so here or there- longer, provided I was willing to help turn a spit or stir a pot. I think sometimes she might have just made something up for me to do, so I’d have an excuse to stay there and not have to go somewhere else where I might have to run into Danarius,” Dorian told her after a moment. “For a while there I thought he didn’t know, but about four years or so after Fenris left he- it became obvious that he knew exactly where all my hiding spots were. But he let it continue. He thought it was humiliating, for the son of a magister to be following an elven slavewoman’s orders in the kitchen, helping her with menial tasks. He always did like to watch me debase myself.”

“The more I hear about Danarius the more it seems like the guy went out of his way to be a complete and total asshole in every way at every possible opportunity,” Hawke observed.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Dorian said, sounding faintly amused. “Though I doubt that was his end goal, to become the asshole to end all assholes. It made him even worse, in some ways. He always had another agenda.”

“Well, take your pick of the food. I wouldn’t want you two bachelors to starve.”

“Yes, Mother,” Dorian replied.

“Two things!” Hawke said, standing back upright. “First: please never call me mother again.” She waited until he nodded before adding “Second: do you know where Fenris is?”

“I thought he was back in the sitting room,” Dorian said, frowning.

“Unfortunately, no,” Hawke told him.

There was a thump from upstairs.

“That’s… probably Sandal,” Hawke said.

“… as in shoes?” Dorian asked.

“No, that’s Bodhan’s son, Sandal. He wasn’t at dinner because in order to stop him from swinging from the chandeliers I told him he could jump on the bed.”

“And I should just get used to hearing sentences like that, shouldn’t I?” Dorian asked.

“Pick out your food,” Hawke reminded him, heading back upstairs just to make sure that Fenris and Anders weren’t, like, testing out Isabela’s ‘just shag it out’ idea on her bed or anything.

They were not. It was pretty obvious that Sandal was indeed the culprit behind the thumping: from the looks of things, he’d fallen asleep, rolled off of bed, and was now using Ser Woofus as a mattress. Given that the mabari’s reaction to her approach was to silently bare his teeth, the old hound didn’t seem too put out about the whole thing. And, just outside her bedroom window, she caught site of the unmistakable blue glow of trouble in the little alley next to the Estate.

 _Sweet Andraste_ , she thought. _Please remind your husband, our Maker, that He was supposed to have turned from this world, so He can stop arranging my life to be so bloody annoying at any time now._

Predictably, Andraste did not intervene. One of these days she was going to have words with Sebastian about that.

“…bloody hypocrite!” Anders was saying as she stepped outside, probably hypocritically.

“You’re one to talk,” Fenris replied, also very likely in a hypocritical manner.

“I’m so glad you noticed!”

“It would be difficult not to. You do little else, mage.”

“Do you speak to Dorian like that?”

Fenris didn’t respond, and Hawke was curious, despite the circumstances that made allowing their argument to continue a truly terrible idea. But, she rationalized, thus far only Fenris was in glowing death mode, her neighbors were probably used to this level of noise by now, and well-

It wasn’t like if she stopped them now they would never argue over Dorian again. And if she didn’t stop them now, maybe she’d get a chance to figure out how to stop them later. Provided they did not kill each here, or have the Templars do it for them.

She waited by the entrance to the ally, one eye on the street for any sign of a pending commotion, and began finger on the smoke bombs she was never without.

“Does Dorian even know what you think about people like him? He’s not just a mage- he’s not even just a mage from Tevinter. He’s the son of a magister! The very thing you hold up as an example of why mages shouldn’t be trusted.”

“Dorian is not like that,” Fenris all but growled. “He is not a magister. He was a slave, just as I was.”

“The mages imprisoned in the Circle are-”

“Not. Slaves.”

“You saw what Alrik was doing!”

“And now he is dead, and it is only good fortune that prevented his intended victim from joining him, rather than any action of yours.”

“Karras is still alive.”

“Karras is one man.”

“Danarius was one man, and-”

“Do not speak of things which you do not understand!” Fenris snarled, advancing on Anders whose eyes had taken on that Justice-y glow.

“Aaaaaaaaand smoke bomb!” she cried, throwing said bomb at them.

There was a muddle of coughing, and the two men stumbled out of the ally.

“ _Kaffas_ , Hawke.”

“What the hell?”

“Alrighty, the glowing is still visible in the smoke, thank you for clearing that up!” Hawke said with as much cheer as she could force into her tone- which, for the record, was a lot. She was a regular bluebird of happiness, bringing joy- neigh, bringing _rapture_ , to all who beheld her. “Fenris, I told Dorian to help himself to the pantry, why don’t you help him pick out some fancy cakes. And Anders! Follow me, there are things to be vented.”

“Fancy…cakes?” She was pretty sure she heard Fenris mutter, but she was already heading back inside, Anders hot on her heels.

At the last second, she veered from moving upstairs to moving into the courtyard: they were much less likely to wake Sandal and therefore incur the wrath of both Bodhan and Ser Woofus that way.

“Can you believe him?” Anders asked as soon as she’d closed the door.

“Yes. I’ve met him before. So have you, as I recall.”

“Ha.” Anders sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So I’ve been meaning to ask: do you think it’s a good idea, leaving the two of them alone in that house?”

“I realize that Diamondback nights have been put on hold while things are still settling, but you should know that they’ve finally gotten rid of the bodies and patched up some of the holes in the roof.”

“That’s good to hear, actually, but I wasn’t referring to that. It’s just- look. Fenris doesn’t like mages. He prefers the way the Circle is run here in Kirkwall, he still thinks highly of Knight-Commander Meredith, and you know what he says about me- about _Merrill_. And Dorian looks to him like a stray hoping for scraps. That doesn’t seem like it will end well.”

“I don’t know you expect me to do about that. If I suggested finding separate quarters, they’d _both_ protest.”

“And they doesn’t seem wrong to you? _Fenris doesn’t like mages_ , and he’s touching this one. Voluntarily!”

“I’m pretty sure they’ve both had their cootie shots by now.”

“Are you?”

“Am I sure that they’ve both had their cootie shots?” Hawke asked, making sure to speak slowly and clearly.

“Well,” Anders said. “Who knows how they do these things in Tevinter? Probably their version of the cootie shot involves ritual sacrifices.”

Hawke smirked.

Anders sighed, and then became serious once more. “It’s just- look. Fenris was a bodyguard, and Dorian- he seems like someone who would have been guarded. Are we sure they aren’t just falling back into those patterns?”

“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Aveline when she brought up the possibility of Fenris being turned into Dorian’s blood thrall.” Here, Anders made an indignant squawking noise, but she powered on through. “Whatever Danarius did to them, it was likely traumatic as fuck, and not something anyone here needs to know the details of, because obviously the results involved things like ‘trust’ and perhaps even ‘friendship’. Fenris has been free for longer than Dorian has, and I’m sure that his presence is helping Dorian adjust. Dorian, meanwhile, is someone who knew Fenris in Tevinter, and therefore doesn’t need to have every cultural difference explained. It doesn’t make much sense to me, but it doesn’t have to as long as it works for them.”

“I wish he was able to overlook the magic aspect of things to see the plight of the mages here in Kirkwall,” Anders complained. “I mean, he claims to have accepted that Dorian’s plight was similar to his own, but-”

“But he’s witnessed Dorian’s plight, and unlike the conflict here in Kirkwall, I’m having a hard time imagining that there was much in the way of Dorian making a deal with a demon in order to strike back against Danarius. You said it yourself: the blood magic doesn’t help the cause of mage freedom.”

“But-”

“But Fenris is stubborn in his beliefs and, for better or worse, he considers Dorian his fellow ex-slave,” Hawke said. “Let’s take it from there.”

Anders sighed again, but acquiesced. That particular argument was forestalled again- for the time being, at least.

* * *

 

“Fenris and Dorian left with their weight in pastries a few minutes ago,” Isabela reported when she returned to the sitting room.

“And Anders is headed back to his clinic,” Anders said from the hall. “Night, all.”

“Goodnight Anders,” Aveline said. “Try and steer clear of the Templars, would you?”

“I always do,” Anders lied as he left.

“We’re about to get started on a game of Wicked Grace,” Varric told her. “You want in?”

“Nah,” Hawke said. “I’ll watch this round.”

She spooned up behind Merrill, watching Varric deal the cards. “We’re so hiring a wedding planner,” she mumbled into Merrill’s hair.

“I haven’t said yes yet,” she reminded her.

“Spoilsport,” Hawke grumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tevene** :  
> Me dedo- I surrender. Literally, or so the internet informs me: I devote myself. 
> 
> **Food** :  
> fly pies- more commonly known as an [Eccles cake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eccles_cake). But seeing as there isn't likely to be an Eccles town in Fereldan...
> 
>  **General Notes** :  
> I realize that it's not canon, but I really like the idea of Donnic and Aveline taking their time to decide whether or not she'll take his name, or he'll take hers.


	5. Fenris: Hot Coals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris and Dorian are each encountering problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a dream sequence.

They’d hired Elren, Lia’s father, to do the repairs to the Estate, on the strength of the fact that Fenris had crushed Kelder’s heart and therefore the man owed him. He supposed, given the state of the mansion, that he should not have been surprised to discover that repairs were still going to cost a great deal of gold, but the original estimate had certainly been a shock.

Dorian had waved off his concern (“Danarius could pay double the market value for every mansion on this street and still have money left over, and I control his accounts now.”) and with the promise of gold guaranteed, Elren’s men had made quick work, retiling the roof, fortifying the foundations and refurbishing the sagging walls and ceilings. Just about the only places that didn’t have a structural fault of some kind were the library and the study, which Dorian determined had magical protections fortifying them from the elements.

“Only that,” he explained to Fenris and the decidedly nervous-looking workmen. “If there was some sort of warding spell to keep away unwanted visitors, then it has long-since worn off.”

Given that there were many copies of various editions of Ander’s manifesto in the library, Fenris was inclined to believe it.

The construction was just about finished now, and things were, if not back to ‘normal’, then back to a kind of equilibrium. With all the workers bustling around the mansion, Dorian did very little spellcasting, which suited Fenris just fine. There were times, mostly at night after the workers had gone home, where he did his fine control exercises, trying to reign in the power of his fire-based spells so that they didn’t blind anyone within sight. After learning that a powerful spell could cause the pain in his lyrium tattoos to flare up, Dorian marked out a room as far away from Fenris’ as he could to practice in. Dorian was a considerate housemate: he replenished the wine he drank, gave Fenris his space when it was requested, and was an interesting conversational partner and challenging sparring opponent when it was not. Neither of them was particularly good in the kitchen, but they were both in a position to derive amusement from it, rather than it being a source of frustration. During the day, Fenris showed him the sights of the city, such as they were, while avoiding both the Gallows and Darktown for the time being. At night, they went to The Hanged Man, where Dorian quickly picked up on Wicked Grace well enough to join Isabela in her cheating, or they stayed inside, reading and drinking.

Normally, Fenris would work on a book that was aimed at an adolescent and Dorian would skim through one of Danarius’ tomes of magical theory, muttering to himself angrily and occasionally taking down notes. It was a habit which did make him somewhat nervous, but it beat the alternative, as the alternative was for Dorian to power through the series Fenris was working on and then try and talk about something he hadn’t gotten to yet. Fenris had snapped at him, Dorian had tried to pass it off as a theory rather than spoilers, and they’d both gotten so caught up in the ensuing argument that they hadn’t realized that Hawke had let herself in until she’d insinuated herself in the melee.

Diamondback nights had been put on hold, but would likely be starting up again shortly after the workmen had finished. Isabela had not made a bid for another night together in quite some time, which was strange only because he wasn’t sure who else had caught her attention. Hawke had not asked him out on any adventures in some time, but that might just mean that she was helping Anders with mage things, or was sensitive to the fact that Fenris now had his own mage thing to occupy himself with.

Dorian was mostly fine- or at least, mostly acting as though he were fine. He was still having nightmares, Fenris could tell, although he never woke up screaming or thrashed violently enough for Fenris to be woken by them. Instead, Fenris would simply wake up sometimes to find that Dorian was already up and about, generally helping himself to whatever they had in the kitchen. There was no repeat of that first night, when he’d found Dorian trying to convince himself that he was really free.

Dorian didn’t generally talk about his nightmares, and Fenris didn’t want to pry: his own dreams were troubling him enough.

On the last day of construction, Fenris woke up with a gasp, something which was quickly becoming a habit. He hadn’t had a great many nightmares before he’d killed Danarius, but they were coming every night now, sometimes even more than once, if he tried to fall back asleep.

He wasn’t going to try that tonight. He could see the pink streaks of dawn out of the window, and Elren would be coming around to make sure that his men had truly finished the repairs before mid-morning. He might as well be awake.

Dorian was already in the kitchen, lost in thought, one wine glass held loosely in his hand.

“I know I should not throw stones,” Fenris said. “But you do realize that the sun is not yet up.”

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , it’s _cordial_ ,” Dorian told him, too tired to properly snap. “I’m not trying to get drunk, I’m trying to stop myself from jumping out of my own skin.” He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Care to join me? It doesn’t look like your night has been any more restful than mine.”

He had a point. Fenris settled into the chair across the table from him, and Dorian plucked the cordial bottle from where he’d set it onto the floor next to him and slid it over to him.

“Here. I really am trying not to get drunk, believe it or not.”

“I believe it.” If he’d been trying, he would have succeeded before Fenris came across him, and been nursing something with noticeable alcohol content.

“I’m dreaming differently,” Dorian said quietly, after a moment.

“Dreaming… differently?”

“I don’t have any control over it anymore.”

“You had control over your dreams?”

“ _Some_ control, as all mages do. I’m no somniari,” Dorian said. “But I used to be able to realize that I was in a dream, and then influence the direction the dream went: steer the dream away from nightmare territory, find somewhere peaceful to pass the time, or at least less emotionally fraught. I can’t do that anymore. I get as far as realizing that I’m dreaming and then I’m just… trapped.”

Dorian took a long measured pull from his glass, and then turned to the side, facing the window.

“Do you remember the first time Danarius had me suck him off in front of someone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Fenris remembered with crystal-clear clarity. It had been fairly early on, early enough that when Dorian had lashed out there had been no hesitation when he’d stopped him with a hand on his heart. Then Danarius had slashed across Dorian’s palm, and used his blood to take control.

Dorian had fallen to his knees, the blood dripping onto the floor and the fine tremor running through his body the only sign that Danarius had used any force at all to get him there. And, with the threat neutralized, Fenris had stood back next to Danarius’ seat and _watched_.

“It’s like that,” Dorian said. “Screaming inside my own head, not able to control anything, just going through a set of preordained motions. Every night.”

Something about the description reminded him uncomfortably of Anders, speaking about the night that Justice had over taken him.

“The Veil is thin here in Kirkwall, or so I’ve been told,” Fenris said. “Is it possible that there is a demon doing this to you?”

“Possible, certainly, but not likely,” Dorian said. “Demons are clever, and they want to use you as a conduit into this world. If it were a demon, it would be changing things: exchanging Danarius for you or Felix or someone else I actually like, or it would involve some things even Danarius wouldn’t have me do. This-”

“There were things Danarius balked at?” Fenris interrupted, surprised.

“Well, he never did anything sexual involving animals or children, as far as I’m aware,” Dorian said. “He never forced me into having sex with a woman, or in front of my family. Don’t misunderstand, it’s not like I think the man had moral compunctions about these things- or _anything_ for that matter. But through a combination of personal taste and wanting to have examples to point to when he was trying to convince me he wasn’t the worst man to have yanking on my collar, there were things he simply would not do. I was very aware of it too, so it’s not like a demon wouldn’t have plenty of fears to draw upon. But this isn’t like that. It’s all regurgitated memories, like I’ve got to experience the last twelve years of my life all over again, only out of order. It’s all very disorientating, but nothing has asked if I wouldn’t want the power to stop it in exchange for…” Dorian trailed off, and then shrugged.

“A moment of your time,” Fenris finished for him, remembering his own journey into the Fade.

Dorian snorted. “That’s a strange way to phrase a request for demonic possession, but I suppose it wouldn’t take longer than that.”

“Would you do it?” Fenris asked. “In exchange for the power to stop Danarius?”

“No, of course not,” Dorian said. “What would be the point? Danarius is dead. You killed him, as I recall.”

“To stop anyone like Danarius, then,” Fenris amended.

“No,” Dorian replied, just a little too quickly for his comfort.

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not saying the idea isn’t more than a little tempting, but the cost…” Dorian explained with a sigh. “Men like Danarius already come by the dozen. Why would I want to join their ranks? And it’s not as though being possessed would give me any kind of control over the situation- it would only ensure that I never had any kind of control again. Besides, I’m a much more cautious man today than I was at eighteen: it would be a great deal more difficult for anyone to get me into the position Danarius kept me in now. And furthermore, it would be utterly criminal to waste this profile on an abomination.” He smiled, gesturing at his face.

Fenris snorted. “I suppose we should all consider ourselves lucky no demon has thought to appeal to your vanity.”

“Oh no,” Dorian corrected him. “You’re all very lucky I know no demon would ever be able to maintain my good looks for very long.” His smile wavered, and then fell from his face. “I think it’s the collar, that’s causing this, actually.”

“Even though it’s off?” Fenris asked, looking towards the hall when the collar was still kept, under lock and key.

“I think it might have interfered with the way I interact with the Fade permanently,” Dorian confessed. “I’ve been reading through everything I can find about magical suppression in the library, and there’s _nothing_ about trying to suppress someone’s abilities for years. It’s either the Rite of Tranquility, or it’s temporary measures. Magebane and magic purges wear off, and even that _thing_ was only supposed to be used for courtroom appearances, not long-term containment. Everything I’ve found on side-effects of overuse for items such as that collar starts talking about consequences from months of wear, not years.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Fenris admitted.

“Neither do I,” Dorian said, though he still continued. “It’s not just the dreams, though those are bad enough. What if this is why my magic is so difficult to control now? What if I never get that control back?”

“It is not so terrible to live without magic,” Fenris felt obliged to point out.

“I suppose not,” Dorian said, sounding doubtful. “But it’s not something I’ve done except in terrible circumstances, and- I don’t know. It’s like someone’s taken the chains off but I’ve forgotten how to walk. I’m just about at my wits end, I really am.”

Fenris had nothing to offer but empty talk, and so kept silent. Kirkwall was starting to awaken again- it was never truly quiet, a city of its size could not be- but now there was the rumbling of carts and the steady footfalls of workers going about their morning routine.

“I suppose we should eat something, and get ready for Elren’s inspection,” Dorian suggested.

“Yes,” Fenris said slowly. “And I think you might want to think about visiting a healer.”

“You mean Anders?” Dorian asked.

He really did not wish to, but, “He is a healer of no small skill, and if anyone has experience with the overuse of tools for magical suppression, it would be he.”

And, assuming his talk of plight of the mages was not all hot air- and it wasn’t entirely, Fenris knew, from Kerras and Alrik, though whether Anders himself had some kind of experience with such matters was never clear- he would have some idea how to tread carefully. Or so Fenris hoped. Someone should, and it was certainly not himself.

Dorian made thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “What happened there, between you two?”

“What happened?”

“Well, you don’t seem to get along, and it’s at the point where everyone goes out the way to keep you two apart. So, what happen? Did you interrupt each other’s escape attempts? Have a bad break up? What caused that?”

What didn’t cause it? “Nothing caused it. I have never liked him and he has never liked me. We have been at each other’s throats since day one.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t leave much room for anything between you two,” Dorian mused

“You’re as bad as Isabela,” Fenris accused.

“At least I know how to wear pants.”

* * *

 

_The boy’s too valuable whole and unmarked for the standard runaway punishments to apply: as entertaining as it would be to see his family flailing for excuses as to why their son was now sporting a brand, in the long run it would only upset the game. Instead, he’s restricted himself to deprivation, restraints, and a moderate amount of force._

_Still, despite those restrictions, he will probably need to bring one of his healers in soon. The boy’s back is a canvas of bruises, motley green-and-yellow from right after he was returned criss-crossed with more recently earned purpling welts. His body is a taut as a bowstring, shuddering with every thrust and touch, and he’s not breathing so much as sobbing, tiny breathless sounds of anguish he no longer has the will to hold back. There are no tears. He doesn’t sweat either. Two days without water, and his body has started to shut down._

_He finishes, and then pulls out, watching the fluid seep out across the boy’s buttocks. There are streaks of pink mixed in with the white. He leans over and presses to fingers to the boy’s neck, checking his pulse: it’s steady enough, but rapid and weak._

_Even if the boy proves even more unnaturally stubborn than he already has, the healers will have to be brought in come first light. He doesn’t think that will be the case. He’s pretty sure the boy’s been pushed past his limits._

_“Would you care for a glass of water?” he asks._

_“Yes,” the boy rasps out, cringing at the sound of his own voice._

_“Yes, what?”_

_“Yes, please. Please”_

_“And you’ll behave?”_

_“I’ll behave. Promise. Please.”_

_He jolts the lock, and the manacles around the boy’s wrists and ankles release. The boy lets out a small cry, and he can see that his right wrist is broken- he probably did it yesterday, when he was still fighting himself into exhaustion._

_He helps the boy sit up. His balance is poor, and it takes everything he has to stay upright, his feet hooked onto the frame and his good hand gripping the edge of the mattress while he cradles his right in his lap. The boy has no choice but to let him bring the glass to his lips, and he swallows the water down along with the humiliation that’s making his cheeks burn with heat._

_Still. The moment the glass is empty and he moves to return it to the bedside table, he can see the boy weighing his options. Was he really going to go through with this? Or was that glass of water enough to try to continue to struggle with, despite his promise?_

_It wasn’t. The boy’s shoulders slump and he looks so defeated he almost doesn’t need to hear the words._

_Almost._

_“How-” Dorian’s voice cracks on the word, and his eyes close. He takes several deep breaths before trying again. “How do you want me Danarius?”_

_He smiles. The healers can wait one more round._

_“On your knees.”_

_Dorian doesn’t slide to the floor so much as flop, gracelessly and with a grunt of pain. He threads his fingers through the boy’s hair and-_

Fenris woke up. He managed to stumble into the privy before retching up everything in his stomach.

Why would he dream that? Why would he dream of being Danarius? Why would he dream of hurting Dorian?

Perhaps that last one was not so surprising. Danarius had ordered him to hurt Dorian often enough: and there were still more times when he’d merely watched. They had discussed such a time yesterday- perhaps that had stirred something…

All at once he remembered Dorian’s words. “If it were a demon, it would be changing things: _exchanging Danarius for you_.”

No. He would not tolerate demons influencing his mind. There were more than enough of such people running around Kirkwall as it was.

He rinsed out his mouth and marched into Dorian’s room. Dorian started awake with a small grunt.

“ _Nunc non, oro_ ,” he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes as Fenris pulled back the curtains. “ _Caput dolet, carissimo_.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Dorian.”

Dorian sighed and raised his arm back from his face, peering out at Fenris with one eye opened just a crack. “I assume if we were under attack there would be more shouting?”

“I am taking you to see the healer.”

“All… right? Why is this a more pressing matter today than it was yesterday?” Dorian asked, hauling himself upright. “And is it such a pressing matter that it can’t at least wait until the hour is unholy rather than heinous?”

Some of Fenris’ annoyance must have shown on his face because he immediately added “I’m not saying that I won’t go! I would just like to know if something’s changed, that’s all.”

There was no good way to respond to that, so Fenris didn’t.

After a moment, Dorian’s shoulders slumped slightly, and he rubbed at his eyes before giving his head a little shake. “Right. Sorry,” he said, in a much more subdued tone of voice. “Just give me a moment to freshen up and then-”

Fenris suddenly felt very foolish. “No.”

“No?” Dorian repeated, bewildered, before adding, with a distinct note of pleading. “Fenris, you can’t just expect me to fly down to Darktown in my sleeping clothes, surely?”

“No, you misunderstand,” Fenris said, yanking the curtains closed once more. “Go back to sleep. Or don’t. Whichever you prefer.”

“You’re not making a great deal of sense, Fenris,” Dorian said, which was something of an understatement.

“It’s nothing, just a passing thought I should not have acted upon,” Fenris assured him. “I apologize for the intrusion.”

He turned to leave.

“Fenris,” Dorian called out as he stood. “Fenris, wait.”

Fenris turned around to face him. Dorian’s hand twitched, and then he let it fall back down to his side. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” he asked. “You can- I’m not- I can listen, at least, if you need to talk about anything.”

“It’s nothing,” Fenris repeated, and then took his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** :  
> The dream is a fairly graphic depiction of Danarius raping Dorian, told through Danarius' (apparent) POV.
> 
>  **Tevene** :  
>  _Nunc non, oro._ = "Not now, please." Or more literally, "Not now, I beg of you."  
>  _Caput dolet, carissimo._ = "I have a headache, darling."


	6. Dorian: Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian is looking to try and solve those problems.

Dorian did not even pretend to try to fall back asleep once Fenris had left. He’d been trapped in the middle of one the less pleasant days he’d spent with Danarius after the other man had recovered from Seheron- and he’d reached new lows of violent sadistic behavior just after Fenris had run- so he was in no rush to fall back asleep end up in the other half of the day, if not sometime worse.

Besides, _something_ was clearly bothering Fenris, and if he ever wanted to know what, he was going to have to do some planning.

He had tried not to picture Fenris was a free man very often when he was still stuck with Danarius, but somehow he’d still gotten a picture in his head of Fenris being able to drop his guard a little. Smile more often. Perhaps even joke a bit- it had taken effort, but Fenris did have a very dry sense of humor, and it was always worth it to coax it out of him.

But no, Fenris was as stoic as ever, and it was as much work to make him crack a smile as it had ever been, let alone drag some genuine display of emotion from the man. It might very well be how he _was_ , rather than a product of Danarius’ power over him.

Not that it made much difference, when it came to trying to help the man.

Dorian took a deep breath, scrubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes until he could see little whorls on the inside of his eyelids. Should he attempt to help? It wasn’t as though Fenris didn’t have friends he could talk to here, and it might be that he didn’t want _Dorian_ prying into his emotions. As things were, he was already something of an unannounced house guest, and he couldn’t help but get the impression that he was interfering in the way Fenris normally conducted his affairs. Every time he’d heard anything from the agents reporting back to Danarius about the elf, it had involved a massacre of some sort of group of mercenaries or blood mages or slavers. But things had been quiet, as far as Fenris himself was concerned- they only ever socialized with the member’s of Hawke’s circle of friends, rather than going on the sort of murder and mayhem spree he would have thought took up the bulk of Fenris’ time. He certainly doubted that Fenris went on quite so many site-seeing excursions on his own, let alone everything else they’d taken to doing together.

It was entirely possible, he realized, that whatever had bothered Fenris so was linked to his presence. Their friendship was something made possible only because they shared the bad luck to be under Danarius’ thumb- what if he was finding it difficult to separate those circumstances from their current ones? To separate the two of them from Danarius?

But, if there was a point to all this woolgathering it was that he had no idea what was going on Fenris’ head and not the first idea how to find out about it.

Well. Actually, he had one clue.

“I think I _should_ see Anders today,” he announced to Fenris.

Fenris looked up from where he was frying a scone. “What makes you think that?” he asked suspiciously.

“The fact that I’m very tired of sitting around doing practically nothing. I want to go do something, which at this point largely means helping Hawke, which would be much easier to do if I could actually use my magic in an effective manner. I’d be next to useless in a fight otherwise, which means that I need some way to get past this. Since I assume you wouldn’t suggest Anders unless you had some kind of other idea, I’d like to try that.”

“Very well,” Fenris agreed. “After breakfast.”

“Right, no flying down to Darktown on an empty stomach,” Dorian replied.

“And you’ll require your staff,” Fenris warned him. “Even if you won’t be doing any spellcasting, it is unwise to enter Darktown unarmed.”

“So noted,” Dorian said.

* * *

Living with Danarius had involved something like a long and overly-detailed tour of everything terrible that could happen to someone in Tevinter. Still, there were some things which he’d somehow managed not to be dragged into; in hindsight, most of those had to do with the way those Soporati not fortunate enough to have ways and means to compensate for their lack of magic lived.

Lowtown had been a bit of shock. The alienage had left him feeling downright unnerved for days. But somehow, he still wasn’t expecting Darktown to be much worse, so much as lacking in sunlight.

It was very much worse. It was quite probably _the_ worst he’d ever seen, and he’d been to Seheron after the Qunari retook the place. When he’d come down here to help dispose of the bodies with Hawke, he’d assumed that they’d been walking down some kind of disused passageway, not that the entire part of town actually looked like that- that people _lived_ in that. Though, he might be misremembering- everything got a little effervescent after the collar had come off.

“Don’t make eye contact,” Fenris hissed out of the side of his mouth.

“I know that, thanks,” he replied, and made an effort to not stare. Not that there really seemed to be much in the way of people looking to bother them- if anything, people went out of the way to give them their space. He wondered if it was because of Fenris- either because people recognized him as one of Hawke’s, or because he was a tattooed elf carry a sword nearly as tall as he was- or because of himself, the mage.

It was strange: people had feared him for being a mage before, but when he was in Tevinter that was because magic signified a high social status. He was someone to be feared less on his ability to throw a fireball and more on the strength of his social connects. He could destroy someone simply by vocalizing his dissatisfaction in the right company, or raise them up with his favor. Being a mage, and especially an Altus mage, meant that he was nobility, with all the authority and gold that implied.

Here, people feared him for his fireballs. It was as though he were a common thug who might start brawling in the… whatever it was that was attempting to pass itself off as streets down here given the slightest provocation. A bit ironic, considering why they were down here.

It was just all so different. He wasn’t even sure if there was something like an Altus mage in the South- did Circles divide themselves based off of who had family in the city, or whether or not their parents were Circle members as well? Would have a mage parent confer a higher status or lower status? He had no idea. All that he’d heard of how the Circle operated- and people were talking of little else- had to do with how cruel the Templars were to them, or how terrible the threat of malificars was. The First Enchanter was an elven man named Orsino and the Knight-Commander of the Templars was a human woman named Meredith, but beyond that he hadn’t the first clue what sort of hierarchy there was there.

Of course, he could simply be over thinking things, and people were keeping their distance because of the look on Fenris’ face. That was certainly a possibility.

“Mage,” Fenris said as he entered the clinic.

“Elf,” Anders greeted him. “I’ve had a long night, so unless Hawke is following y- oh. Hello Dorian.”

“Hello Anders,” Dorian said. “I was wondering if I might have a word?”

“Sure,” Anders said uncertainly, looked between him and Fenris. “What about?”

“It’s…” Dorian sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. Now that he was here, he realized that he really didn’t know how to phrase this.

“I could wait outside, if you would prefer it,” Fenris offered.

“No. Well, unless you left to pick up some high-quality alcohol,” Dorian joked. “That would help.”

“I might be able to do something about that,” Anders suggested.

He and Fenris sat down on one side of the table that Anders appeared to using as a sort of desk. Anders rummaged around in the crates behind them before pulling out a half-full bottle of something unlabeled and two glasses: one for himself, and one for Dorian.

In all likelihood the lack of a glass for Fenris was entirely about the ongoing conflict between the two of them that he was still attempting to feel his way around rather than anything else, but it felt too close to overlooking a slave for Dorian’s comfort. He handed his glass off to Fenris.

Anders blinked in surprise.

“I’m not thirsty,” Fenris said, sliding the glass back towards Dorian.

Dorian turned slowly to face Fenris and then said in the most incredulous manner he could “ _You’re_... not thirsty?”

“Your point is well taken,” Fenris conceded, snatching the glass back.

Anders smirked, and pushed his glass over to Dorian before returning to his crates and rummaging around for a third.

Fenris hunched over his glass, sour-faced. Dorian regarded him for a moment, before softening. If he was here to try and understand Fenris a little more, then clearly he was using the wrong tactic- though he should still try and figure out if there was anything he could do to restore his connection to the Fade. “You _can_ leave, if you prefer.”

Fenris hesitated. “Would you find it easier to speak if I were here?”

“I… don’t know,” Dorian admitted.

“If I stay, it is very likely that one of us will bait the other into an argument,” Fenris explained, shifting uneasily. “I would try to avoid it, but it seems almost inevitable.”

“And that’s not really why we’re here,” Dorian finished for him.

“No.”

“We’re here because I’m having magic issues and you’re a worrier.”

Fenris did not appear amused by his statement.

“I promise to shout if things go wrong,” Dorian said.

“Things have better not go wrong,” Fenris said, turning to Anders, who had given up feigning a search for another glass in favor of watching them openly.

“I’m not going to hurt a patient,” Anders protested.

“For the record, I actually meant in case of assassins dropping in through the ceiling, but I appreciate the reassurances,” Dorian said, adding when Fenris still looked hesitant. “I can shout down half of Kirkwall if I’ve a mind to, and well you know it. You can go.”

Fenris stood. “I’ll be right outside.”

Dorian and Anders both waved as he left.

“So… shouting down half of Kirkwall?” Anders asked, pouring him out a measure of whatever.

He sounded amused, though Dorian was at a loss as to why. “I realize that this information might come as a shock to you, but Danarius wasn’t a particularly gentle soul,” Dorian replied, swallowing as much of the drink as he could. It was whisky of some kind- not bad quality too.

“Oh.”

“There wasn’t really much I could do about, except occasionally shout loudly enough to give him a headache for his trouble,” Dorian continued, trying to parse the expression on Anders’ face. When he still couldn’t figure out what it was causing it, he gave up and asked. “Why, what did you think I meant?”

“It’s just,” Anders said, shrugging in lieu of finishing his sentence. “You two seem close.”

Dorian was very grateful he had not been drinking during that sentence. This was the South, he reminded himself, where the Champion of Kirkwall was publicly and embarrassingly in love with her Dalish girlfriend, Isabela had slept with any number of people of any number of genders, the idea that Fenris and Anders should try to hatefuck their mutual enmity out was something of a running joke within their circle of mutual friends, and the extremely pious lay brother had nothing to say to it, other than a half-hearted bid to convert Merrill so she and Hawke could have a Chantry wedding- something which was apparently not only legal, but celebrated as much as a union between a man and a woman would be. It wasn’t as big a deal here. Neither he nor Fenris would be harmed by such an assumption, and no one’s reputation was going to be tainted by the knowledge that they associated with some sexual deviant. He probably didn’t even count as a sexual deviant down here- especially compared to everyone else in Hawke’s circle of friends, save Sebastian and _perhaps_ Aveline.

He was silent for long enough that when he next checked the expression on Anders’ face, he looked concerned.

“That would be a very big deal in Tevinter, right?” Ander checked.

“Life-ruiningly so,” Dorian confirmed. “Unless people assumed he was my slave and I was forcing myself on him. Then everything would be hunky-dory!”

Anders topped off his glass for him, and then sat down. “I take it that’s not what you came to speak to me about?”

“Fenris? No, it isn’t.” Not anymore, at any rate. “Do you remember that collar you took off of me?”

“Yes?”

“As I’m sure you put together, it suppresses magic,” Dorian explained, waiting for Anders to show some sign of comprehension before continuing. “Specifically by interfering with my ability to connect to the Fade. Now that it’s off, things aren’t going back to normal, and I’m growing concerned that they won’t be. Fenris thought you might be able to tell if there was permanent damage, or maybe even have come across some kind of similar case?” He couldn’t keep the hopeful note from his voice.

“I’m not sure,” Anders said slowly. “Can you be more specific about what sort of problems you’re having? Is it still like everything’s coming out at once, or does it fluctuate between too much or too little?”

“It’s mostly too much- more like I can’t control how much. I’ve been doing some fine control exercises- I thought maybe it was just a matter of- of not being able to do magic for years, but I remember how, perfectly, and it still won’t come out right. It doesn’t even come close.” Dorian considered draining his glass, and decided to try pacing himself. From the looks of things, Anders didn’t really have the money for high-quality alcohol, and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the rest of the bottle had been used for something more medicinal. Still, he took a very small sip before continuing. “That’s not the only problem though. It’s changed the way I dream.”

“The way you dream...” Anders frowned, as though he couldn’t quite remember the details of something. “How so?”

“I’m not dreaming so much as reliving memories,” Dorian explained. “I can tell I’m dreaming, but I can’t stop or change any of it- and I’ve been trying, believe me. It just… happens.”

“And it’s exactly the same in your dreams as it was when it was happening?” Anders asked.

“Physically- or in terms of events, really- I haven’t noticed any differences,” Dorian told him. “Emotionally- as I said, I can normally tell I’m dreaming, and that I’m dreaming of something that’s already over and done with. It doesn’t make it less horrible, but it’s less shocking, I suppose. I know exactly what’s going to happen.”

“You said you weren’t allowed out of that thing for five years?” Anders asked.

“Well on its way to being six,” Dorian confirmed.

Anders brow furrowed, and after what seemed like a moment of internal conflict, he asked “I assume that you slept in it, then?”

“Yes. I didn’t dream, though.”

“Not once?” Anders asked, shocked.

“Not that I can recall,” Dorian admitted. “And normally I can remember my dreams.”

“Were you able to daydream?” Anders asked. “Imagine things?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, the word coming out more uncertain than he would have liked. “It’s- even before he started keeping me in that thing, daydreaming wasn’t something I could do a lot of. It was just- constant worry, constant pressure, constant-” He frowned, unsure what words in either Trade or Tevene could accurate convey what it had been like. “Everything was a performance. The slightest suggestion of a slip…”

“And you were constantly being watched,” Anders finished for him. “So even if you weren’t _doing_ anything wrong, you felt afraid that something would give away what you wanted to do.”

“Exactly,” Dorian said. “I could- did imagine things. I was able to make plans. But I’m not sure that daydreaming was something I’d done a lot of since the beginning.”

Anders nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. Occasionally he would open his mouth as though to say something, and then would close it again.

Dorian waited, not wanting to interrupt.

“This might not be any of my business,” Anders said finally. “But five-nearly-six years ago was around the time Fenris arrived in Kirkwall.”

Dorian spared an involuntary glance back towards the entrance before leaning in towards Anders a bit. “I don’t think he’s put that together yet, and I’ll thank you to not tell him.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t his fault. Anything Danarius did to me after he left was about Danarius, not Fenris.”

“That- and again, it might not be my business-”

“It isn’t,” Dorian snapped, and regretted it immediately. “I- that was unworthy. I apologize.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Anders said with a wave.

“It’s just,” Dorian tried to explain. “Danarius went out of the way to keep us both isolated. He wanted us to be rivals, and he made it so that it would be so easy for us to hate each other. It almost work but- I’m unnaturally stubborn. And Fenris isn’t much better, so much as he is more subtle about it. So we became friends, and eventually Danarius conceded that fight so he could have the pleasure of making us each feel responsible for what he was doing to the other.”

It hadn’t been like that- he hadn’t bothered reaching out to Fenris or the others until after ‘his’ punishment for his last unsuccessful escape attempt. But that made it sound like Danarius had planned their friendship, and- it was possible that he had, up to a point. That he wanted Dorian to feel some kind of kinship or at least responsibility for his other slaves was certain, but he wasn’t entirely sure Danarius understood something as politically inconvenient as friendship. He didn’t really understand much of anything aside from his own self-interest, spectacular library or not.

“We were the jewels of his collection, Fenris and I. No one else knew how to give their bodyguards abilities like his, and no one else knew how to collar someone of my station. Losing Fenris was bad, but it could be excused. He was hardly the only magister to lose something of worth when the Qunari invaded. But losing us both would have ruined him. He grew very paranoid about the idea that I was going to follow Fenris, and he clamped down all the harder for it, but Danarius’ fits of pique didn’t stem from what Fenris was doing so much as they latched on to him as an excuse.” Dorian bit down on his lip, thinking. There was a point he'd been trying to make here, he knew it, he just had to find it. “I cannot express how much of a comfort the thought of Fenris being here and well out of _that_ was. Especially when I don’t want him to feel guilty over it.” He waited a moment, and then smiled. “Though, come to think of it, I did imagine what he was getting up to down here on occassion. It generally involved more dashing heroics and marginally less squatting in corpse-filled derelicts than the reality, so I suppose that counts as a daydream.”

Anders smiled back, and let his return to the topic of discussion stand. “I can’t say I’ve heard about any devices like the collar, but I know that repeated Silences can have a lingering effect on someone’s ability to cast spells.”

“Silences?” Dorian repeated.

“The Templars’ ability to drain the mana from a mage.”

“That’s real?” Dorian asked, shocked.

“Templars in Tevinter don’t do that, I take it.”

“No. I’d always dismissed talk of that as propaganda, to be honest,” Dorian explained.

“I take it they don’t have the Rite of Tranquility in Tevinter either.”

“Oh, they do,” Danarius had threatened him with that too, on occasion. “It’s just a punishment handed down from the Magisterium, not the Templars. ‘Abuse of magic’ has so many convenient interpretations you can use to shut up your political opponents, after all.”

“It sure does,” Anders said, sighing. “So what do the Templars in Tevinter do then?”

“They’re still a body of law enforcement, but as the law is written by the Magisterium, the Templars are wholly subordinate to the Circles. Most of the time, they let us duel out our issues with one another, and only intervene when someone has been very stupid- either politically or just in general. They’re more like an elite version of a city guard than anything else. Mages vs Templars isn’t really a dynamic in Tevinter politics. More like one political faction against another, or Laetan vs Altus. The Templars are just back up, really.”

“I’ve heard you call yourself an Altus before, but I’m not really sure what that is,” Anders said.

“That… is a very complicated answer you’ve ask for,” Dorian warned him. “I suppose the shortened version would be that free Tevinter society is divided by class. Most people are Soporati, those without magical talents. Those range from fairly well-to-do merchants to the liberati- freed slaves and their decedents down three generations, who have very limited rights compared to the other mundane citizens. Laetans are those mages born into the Soporati, or their descendents- the amount of time it takes to stop being a Laetan and move up to being an Altus depends on politics. Marriage, either through marriage into an Altus family, or using a marriage to an Altus to elevate your own House, is probably the most common method.” That’s how Danarius had done it: in many circles, he’d been regarded as a little more than a plebian with aspirations- albeit a very dangerous plebian with very ambitious aspirations- until he’d showed up with Dorian chained to his arm. “So what was this about Silences having an effect on spellcasting?”

“Occasionally when a mage has been Silenced too much- it can be either too many repeated applications of a Silence over too short a time, or repeated Silences done over too long a period. It’s like,” Anders frowned. “It’s like there are cobwebs, sticking to everything. It makes casting clumsy and spells lopsided.”

“That’s not what I have. It’s like a damn burst,” Dorian told him. “Though- that does sound a bit like what it felt like when I tried to cast with that collar on, if I were really putting a lot of effort into it. Normally there was just nothing, but sometimes it was like the fire was on the other side of sheets, trying to get through.”

“Was it always fire-based magic you were trying to cast?” Anders asked.

“Yes,” Dorian said. “I’ve always had a talent for it, and I’d had some luck with setting things on fire when I shouldn’t have been able to do so previously.”

“Oh?”

“Did you know that it’s possible to build up a tolerance to magebane?”

“No, actually, I didn’t.”

“Yes, it was an unpleasant surprise for both Danarius and I. He wasn’t looking to have his bed set on fire, and if I’d known I was going to be able to cast, the bed would not have been what caught on fire.”

Anders made a very silly face, like he wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

“Do you think focusing on a specific kind of magic while unable to cast makes a difference?” Dorian asked.

“It might,” Anders said. “Have you tried any other kinds of spells since it came off?”

“No,” Dorian said, and then remembered the hangover wisp. “Well, almost nothing else. It wasn’t a spell so much as a reflex.”

“How about the- necromancy? Is that really a thing? Do you introduce yourself at parties like ‘Hello! I’m Dorian and I’m a necromancer.’”

“Of course not. It would be a terrible breach of etiquette,” Dorian said. “And- is that not the right word in Trade for the whole 'inspiring mortal terror in your enemies and then raising their corpses to do your biding' school of magic?”

“That’s two different schools, actually,” Anders said. “Entropy and Arcane.”

Before Dorian could demand a walkthrough of how the Circles were dividing their schools of magic down here, he heard Fenris saying, very loudly. “Now’s not a good time, Hawke.”

“Fenris! Are you voluntarily in the same general vicinity of Anders? Are you ill?”

“Hawke.”

“Are you _dying_?” she demanded.

“Maybe you want to try doing something necromancer-y instead of fiery,” Anders suggested, clearly anticipating Hawke’s imminent arrival. “And we’ll see how that goes.”

“What about the dreams?” Dorian asked.

“It’s possible that they don’t have anything to do with your spellcasting problem at all,” Anders told him.

“How could it not?” Dorian demanded. “It can’t be a coincidence that I’m having the two problems at once.”

“But they could be two different issues stemming from a common cause, rather than two symptoms of the same disease,” Anders told him. “Dreams have other purposes than as a sign of magical abilities- they’re a way of sorting through emotions, bringing to light things that we’d otherwise repress, and-”

“I have already lived through that once,” Dorian hissed. “Why should I have to do it again?”

“Dorian, there is no easy way to root out anyone’s dreams, and what ways there are will take time to prepare,” Anders said. “Try practicing other spells first- barriers, if necromancy seems too much like tempting fate. If you’re still having trouble with your dreams, we’ll find a way to deal with it then. I’m sorry. I don’t have anything else for you right now.”

Dorian sighed, and drained the rest of his glass. “We’re finished, Hawke! You can come in now!” he called out.

Hawke bustled in, followed by a bemused-looking Fenris.

“Guess whose house is haunted?” she asked, half singing in unholy glee.

“Yours?” all three of the men replied dryly.

“Actually, no!” she said, beaming. “Well, probably not. Sandal has some pretty creepy things to say on the subject which makes me wonder, but actually, Varric sold his brother’s mansion, and apparently that place is haunted. So. Do any of you strapping young men want to come accompany me on a midnight stroll to said haunted mansion?”

“I really have a lot of work to do. My potions need to be restocked,” Anders said apologetically. “Besides, one visit to the creepy mansion was more than enough.”

“I’ll go,” Dorian volunteered. Anything but sleep.

Fenris looked appalled, but quickly said. “I as well.”

“Great!” Hawke cheered. “We’ll swing by and pick you guys up late tonight, alright? It’ll be a party!”


	7. Hawke: Backfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke just wants her people to be safe and happy and not at each other's throats.

Haunted houses were a lot more fun in campfire stories than they were in real life. A lot of things were more fun in campfire stories than in real life, so she wasn’t sure why this particular thing was so disappointingly horrible, but it was. Even Varric wasn’t going to make this seem good.

Varric was, in all honesty, kind of losing his shit. He kept saying he could hear some kind of singing, which none of the rest of them could hear. All of them, however, were aware of non-singing creepy noises(“Please tell me that’s not your idea of singing, Varric,” said Dorian “No, that’s not it,” Varric replied distractedly, which did not make anyone feel better about anything at all.), ghostly apparitions (“Well, that can’t be good,” said Dorian. “Powerful magic, or many thousands of deaths, must have happened here,” Fenris replied. “As I said: that can’t be good.”) , things moving all on their own (“Rather uncalled for,” Dorian muttered, casting a protective barrier around Fenris as a pot went flying at his head.), and of course-

“Is that a fucking ghost golem?” she shrieked, because shrieking would be any marginally sane person’s reaction to a fucking ghost golem.

“That’s a fucking ghost golem!” Dorian confirmed, also shrieking a little, like the reasonable man he was.

“What the fuck?”

“A ghost golem!”

“I knoooooooooooooow!”

She probably imagined Fenris stopping in the middle of stabbing the fucking ghost golem to roll his eyes at her, but if Varric asked for her version of events later, that was definitely what happened.

Dorian appeared to be avoiding offensive spellwork, but it didn’t really matter because his barriers were _extremely_ good, lasting much longer and protecting them much better than even Bethany’s did- no offense to her sister. And when it came down to it he hardly needed fireballs: Fenris kept the golem’s attention, Hawke attacked it’s weak points, Varric shot to confuse and obfuscate, and when the thing started bleeding shades, as apparently fucking ghost golems did, Dorian was able to use the blade on the end of his staff to much the same effect as her daggers or Fenris’ sword.

He was still off his game, obviously, but she could tell that once he’d managed to get back on it they’d really be able to shake things all the way down to the Void. Not that they couldn’t have done that before, probably. Or that they were going to _aim_ for that. But-

But they all knew that things were going to come to a head sooner rather than later. Meredith would push too far, or the mages would push too hard back, and then things would fall to shit. And, as usual, people would look to her for help.

She just hoped that her friends would stay by her. That they wouldn’t turn on one another. That the coming shitstorm wouldn’t be what broke them. But the cracks were already starting to show- Merrill worried, fretting over that mirror and the answers it refused to provide, Anders had taken the loss of the mage underground hard and was now pulling away from everyone and everything except his cause, Sebastian was as conflicted and stubborn and angry and pious as ever, Isabela was steadfast in her need to find a ship and an escape route, Aveline was being besieged by politics, Fenris was off balance, with Danarius’ death and his new housemate shaking him when she would have hoped they’d have steadied, Dorian was just plain new, and Varric was apparently trying to follow his brother into the land of batshit maddened insanity.

“I need this thing! Six years of my life have gone into this!”

“No, Varric, the last six years of your life haven’t been about the shard of crazy.”

“My only hope of finding out what happened with my brother is with this shard!”

“No Varric. Just, no.”

It took a bit more cajoling but eventually she coaxed the shard out from Varric’s hand with a jab about Sandal maybe being able to make something out of it.

She wasn’t sure what the hell to do with the thing- she couldn’t just throw it away, because what if someone in Darktown got a hold of it? What if some poor fisherman dredged it up from the sea? What if it ended up in someone’s well?- but she wasn’t entire sure she wanted the thing around her person, or the person of anyone she cared about.

Then again, if anyone could do anything with the shard of crazy and not end up crazy it would be Sandal. Probably.

Sandal woke up as she was packing her cloak into the front closet and was standing near the stairs, watching her silently when she turned back around.

She did not scream, thankfully, and neither did she stab the guy, so she supposed she had to make up for her lack of poor judgment somewhere.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding up the shard of crazy for him to see. “Can you do something with this, or at least make it less dangerous?”

Sandal regarded her seriously for a moment, before saying in an unnervingly earnest manner “One day the magic will come back- all of it. Everyone will be just like they were. The shadows will part, and the skies will open wide.”

“…the fuck?”

“When he rises, everyone will see.”

“By the Ancestors!” Bodhan said, scurrying over to them and attempting to bundle Sandal away. “I’m so sorry Messare Hawke, he’s been picking up on things- with people so tense- and it’s not his usual way I’m sure he’ll-”

“Bodhan,” Hawke said slowly. “Has Sandal said this kind of thing before just now?”

Bodhan ignored her. “What’s gotten into you, boy?”

“Enchantment!” Sandal said, holding up the shard of crazy he’d apparently taken from her at some point.

“Bodhan, really, this is important. I need to know if he’s only said stuff like that now, or-”

“He gets these fits sometimes, these moods- like the time he thought there was a lady coming into his room at night, remember that?” Bodhan asked, a little desperately.

“I still don’t like the lady,” Sandal muttered.

“Come along now, it’s time for bed,” Bodhan said, quite a bit more desperately.

Hawke watched them go, and then walked upstairs into her bedroom, feeling very confused and more than a little anxious.

“How were the ghosts?” Merrill asked. She was propped up on the bed, reading- some old tome written in Elvallas, so long as she was recognizing the alphabet correctly.

“I’m not sure I can do this one justice,” she admitted. “My life is officially too fucking weird.”

“Oh,” Merrill said, marking her place and setting the book aside. “So tonight wouldn’t be a good night to try that tub sex thing Isabela was telling me about?”

Hawke laughed. “I love you,” she said, pulling her close for a kiss. “And I do need a bath.”

* * *

 

She saw Dorian out and about on his own more often after that, sometimes by Ander’s clinic, when she went to try and draw the man out of his shell, sometimes around town, mostly in Hightown’s market, and most often in The Hanged Man, where, in addition to their regular games of Wicked Grace, he’d taken to drinking with Isabela (with whom, she was fairly certain, he was devising some kind of rating system for male asses) and Varric (who was delighted to have a new audience to spin his tales to).

“Whatever he tells you about the fight with the Arishok is a lie,” Hawke warned him. “I spent most of the fight trying to hide behind pillars so I could catch him on his blindside and hoping Ser Woofus would be able to keep him distracted without dying.”

“You mean to tell me that you didn’t summon a dozen fiery hell-hounds to tear out his entrails before his weeping women,” Dorian snarked. “I am shocked. Shocked and appalled, I say.”

“I didn’t what.”

“Neither one of you has any sense of romance,” Varric complained.

“Neither do you apparently,” Hawke said. “Entrails? Ew. And I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Qunari woman, let alone _weeping_ Qunari women.”

They sat there for a moment, trying to picture that. Or, well, she and Varric did at any rate.

“The Qunari must have women,” Varric said finally.

“They do,” Dorian replied. “They just generally don’t fight. Or they don’t fight as part of the army. Qunari consider women to be smarter than men, so they take the more intellectually rigorous roles and leave the heavy lifting to the men.”

“Huh. So are the women as tall as the men? Do they still have horns?”

“I’m not sure about the generalities, because I can count the number of proper Qunari-Qunari I’ve met on one hand, and that includes Maraas,” Dorian said, waving vaguely in the direction of the corner the Tal-Vashoth mercenary had claimed as his own. “The one Qunari-Qunari woman I met was perhaps seven feet tall, and had a set of closely-coiled horns, pretty much on the sides of her head- Leia, I think her owners called her? She was a governess. And a curiosity piece.”

“Qunari-Qunari as opposed to?” Varric asked.

“Viddathari-Qunari,” Dorian clarified. “Humans, elves, and even the odd dwarf who decide to follow to Qun.”

“Yeah,” Hawke sighed, remembering. “We’ve met viddathari.”

“So, how would you tell the story of your fight with the Arishok, Hawke? For the sake of posterity, I mean,” Varric said, before she could go too far down that particular rabbit hole.

“I’m assuming that you don’t want the truth,” Hawke said.

“Yeah, I didn’t say for court, I said for posterity. C’mon Hawke, give me some romance.”

“Why ‘Hawke’? How come I don’t get a nickname?” Hawke complained for the umpteenth time.

“Brand recognition. Now quit dodging the question.”

Later, after Hawke had finished telling the story with the increasingly inebriated '''''''help''''''' of Dorian and Varric, and the mage had put his head down on the table to ‘rest his eyes’ and started snoring, Varric turned to her and said “Listen, Hawke. I don’t know what came over me in Bartrand’s House.”

“The shard of crazy came over you,” she reminded him.

“The fucking ghost golem summoning shard of crazy,” Varric agreed. “That’s going to be tough to write about. No one would believe it.”

“I don’t believe it and I helped kill the damn thing.”

Varric nodded. “I’m glad you’re watching my back.”

“You had me worried for a moment there,” she admitted.

“You never have to worry about me, Hawke,” Varric said, waving off her concern. “I’m always fine.”

“And when you’re not, you lie about it.”

“You know me too well,” he said. “You know it’s been six years today?”

“Six years?”

“Six years since I found you dragging your tail out of Bartrand’s office.”

“I thought that was yesterday?”

“It’s the day we started drinking,” Varric said. “Look, this is awkward, but: I just wanted you to know that it’s been an honor, knowing you.”

She was going to blame the ale later, rather than the general stress of her existence, for the way her eyes pricked at that. “You’re a good friend, Varric, you nug-licking liar.”

“Right back at you, Hawke, you Hawke.”

She stuck out her tongue. Isabela took that moment to walk in, swinging her hips in that just-fucked swagger she had after a particularly good lay, which, quite honestly, told her more than she ever needed to know about Fenris.

“Oh, you started without me?” she said, and chugged the last of Dorian’s mug of ale.

“Finished without you, too,” Hawke said, reaching out to wake Dorian with a shake of the shoulder. The minute her hand made contact his eyes snapped open and he went as stiff as a board. She removed her hand: at least he didn’t have the same murder instinct as Isabela and Fenris to awkward awakenings. “Come on, Dorian. Time for all good ‘vints to be asleep.”

“I was asleep,” Dorian protested, his posture relaxing even as he sat back upright.

“Time for all good ‘vints to be asleep in bed,” she amended, adding when Isabela opened her mouth to comment. “Their own bed.”

“He could have joined us there too,” Isabela grumbled, sotto voice. “I certainly wouldn’t have minded.”

There was no good way to phrase “Please stop talking about having a threesome with the newly-freed gay sex slave Isabela” so she settled for glaring.

“We all know you wouldn’t have minded,” Dorian said, smirking slightly. “Though, if you’re looking for a mage to replicate the ‘electricity trick’ I think you’d be better off having a threesome with Merrill and Hawke.”

Hawke had not been drinking when he said that, so her spluttering was not nearly as life threatening as Varric’s.

“Ooh, now that _is_ a pretty picture,” Isabela said, turning to her with a sly smile as she pounded Varric on the back.

“Very pretty,” she agreed. “Until it ended in my death, because that would probably kill me.”

“But it’d be a sexy death,” Dorian said.

“It’d be a deathly death,” Hawke argued. “What do you care anyway? Is there some kind of Tevinter sex assassination plot at work here?”

“Absolutely,” Isabela purred in her ear, and Maker, when did that woman get so close. “First they sent Fenris, but once they learned that you didn’t swing that way, they sent a new handler to manage him. And all the while he was _turning_ me…”

Hawke was blushing. Even if she couldn’t feel the heat radiating from her face, she could tell from the way Dorian was giggling.

“How did you know about the electricity trick, anyway?” Isabela asked him in a more normal tone of voice.

“Anders told me.”

“Blondie spoke to you about sex?” Varric asked. “ _Recently_?”

“I know, the man seems like such a monk,” Dorian said. “I suppose he went on a bit of a tear after he escaped from the Circle, though. He has _stories_.”

“Ooh, naughty stories?” Isabela said, hitching her hip up on the table so that she was sitting with her breasts more or less right in front of his face. Like that was going to do her any good. “Do tell.”

Dorian stood, placed his mouth almost directly on her ear and said in a husky purr “Maybe later.” He turned and started walk, only slightly unsteadily, out the door. “Goodnight all!”

“You’re a fucking tease, Sweet Pea,” Isabela called after him as Hawke got up to make sure he wasn’t going to get jumped by whoever was moving into the power vacuum left by the Followers of She.

“You’d know, Rivaini,” Dorian replied.

“Her flirting thing doesn’t bother you, does it?” she asked after they’d left The Hanged Man and were trudging past Gamlen’s house- she should really pay her uncle a visit soon.

“Maker, no!” Dorian said. “Why?”

She shrugged. “It sometimes bothers me when men flirt with me, especially when they’re aggressive about it. And I know Isabela can be… Isabela.”

“If I thought she had any intention of trying to force the issue it might trouble me,” Dorian admitted. “As it stands, though, I’m terribly handsome and can’t hold it against people when they notice me- and they _should_ notice someone as stunning as I am.”

Hawke laughed. “Well, to each his own.”

“Indeed.”

It wasn’t until she slipped into bed- her empty bed, Merrill was spending the night with the Eluvian again- that she realized that she hadn’t gotten her payment for killing the Followers of She yet. Ah well. She had time. She’d get to it later.

* * *

 

It took a while for later to come, as there were a couple of problems that needed to be handled into the interim: specifically, a high dragon.

Given the previous problems they have with that mine she’d gritted her teeth and brought Sebastian, Fenris, and Anders along with her. Thankfully, in between the dragonlings, regular dragons, and the motherfucking high dragon herself, there wasn’t much of a chance for their normal discussions to take place. And when the thing had finally died, surprisingly, her group didn’t all turn on one another.

“If I never see a high dragon again it’ll be too soon,” she said, collecting the loot that was encrusted in the high dragon’s underbelly, and a significant looking gland still pulsing slightly in gash on the dragon’s neck where Fenris had finished it off. It looked a bit like a venom sack, but the high dragon wasn’t a poison-spitter, so maybe it spewed fire? She’d be careful with it- it was late enough that they should probably camp outside the city, but it was still less than a day’s travel back to Kirkwall, so it probably wouldn’t start rotting. Maybe that Tranquil guy in the Gallows would be able to take a look at it. She also needed to speak with Knight-Captain Cullen again about what she could do to get Ser Rapey Creep-Ass drummed out of service, or at least get Alain out of from under his thumb. If she’d known what the man was, she’d have killed him then and there instead of going along with Varric’s Templar story.

“It could be worse,” Anders said. “Did I ever tell you about the time Warden-Commander Tabris went to the Dragonbone Wastes to find the leader of the darkspawn and in the middle of a pitched battle a dragon just falls out of the sky and starts attacking everything?”

She couldn’t remember the last time she heard Anders discuss his time with the Wardens- not outside Varric’s presence, at least, and certainly not with the gusto he was using now. His stories carried them through the night until they started sleeping, and then he picked up the next morning and carried on until they were within sight of the city. He and Fenris didn’t even start to bicker until they were back in Kirkwall, and she started debating whether to bring the gland to Solivitus directly or break the bad news to Hubert first. Really, she should have known better than to bring up the Gallows.

She left Fenris and Anders under Sebastian’s watchful eye by the entrance to Hightown’s marketplace and went to discuss matters with Hubert. Hubert did not react well to her retelling of their dragon-killing exploits, and the best that could be said about it was that she walked away half a mine richer and with their argument reaching its end.

Or, at least, Fenris and Anders were near the point where they’d have called it quits before Dorian joined their group.

“They’re going too far. Even you must be able to see it!”

“I see more and more malificars and their thralls, endangering everyone, and the Templars trying to curb that madness as best they can. Their methods might be harsh, but-”

“Would you see Dorian in the Gallows then?”

Hawke repressed a sigh and settled in to wait. Dorian had become something of a new sticking point for the pair of them. Didn’t believe how wide-spread blood magic and any kind of abusive magic in general was in Tevinter? Ask Dorian. Didn’t believe that the Templars were doing anything wrong because there were blood mages every-fucking-where? What about Dorian?

Dorian himself was never physically present for any of these conversations, because while she might have once believed that Anders and Fenris would be able to set aside their differences when she was a much younger and more naïve woman, she hadn’t been that girl in quite some time. The woman she was now just figured that she should try to keep Dorian as well out of their sniping as she could.

“Dorian is not an apostate.”

“Dorian is registered to a Circle in Tevinter: you know, the land of blood magic and power-hungry magisters, that both you and Meredith use as an example of why mages can’t ever be trusted. Do you think it would take much for her to decide that wasn’t good enough?”

“Considering that she lets a known abomination walk around unchecked? Yes.”

“Then let’s say he wasn’t registered to the Circle. Let’s say Danarius took that from him too. He hasn’t been here very long- if he hadn’t fixed up your mansion, Meredith would have no cause to know he was with Hawke. So she would not only have the legal right to arrest him, but no practical reason not to. Would you be alright with the idea of Dorian in the Gallows, being guarded day and night by the likes of Karras?”

“Enough!” she snapped. “We’re not using threats of rape, no matter how indirect, to win an argument!”

It was difficult to say who looked more taken aback, Fenris or Anders- though, to be fair, Fenris had already looked pretty shocked before she’d stepped in.

“I-” Anders said, giving his head a shake. “No- you’re right. That’s too- I’m sorry.”

“You’re also not wrong,” Fenris admitted. “I would not want to see Dorian in the Gallows, or Bethany. I would not even want to see you or Merrill in the Gallows, though that is as much because of what I expect either of you would do to the Gallows as it is what I suspect might happen to you there.”

Anders gaped. Hawke gaped. Sebastian gaped. She was pretty sure Worthy and the two nearest shopping nobles gaped too. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that her mother was gaping from beyond the grave.

“And yet you still support the Templars,” Anders said.

“Noooooooooooooooo,” Hawke groaned. “We were having a moment.”

Anders opened his mouth and she clamped her hand down over it before he could speak. “Hush. We’re heading to the Gallows next, so help me pick out material for a care package for Alain that has some chance of being Templar approved.”

Alain had been sent to the Gallows just under six years ago, which should have been more than enough time to get a feel for what the Templars would and would not allow into the Circle. Unfortunately, Meredith kept changing the rules, and she couldn’t help but get the impression that the Templars in charge of going through such things confiscated anything they fancied keeping for themselves no matter what the regulations said.

She bought some atemoyas, less because she didn’t think the Templars would take them and more because they expected them by now, and she could probably slip the smallest one to Alain in the courtyard if he was there when she arrived. Tea was equally iffy, in terms of being something the Templars would want for themselves, but the herbal stuff Anders picked out that was good for nightmares and stiffness might get through. Alcohol was very much not allowed, as were any manner of sweets, so she skipped straight to socks. Well, she skipped straight to pointing Fenris at socks. Winter was probably going to come again at some point, and who didn’t like socks? Yarn and knitting needles were, as of last year, too dangerous, as were any of the fancy bath oils she was in the habit of throwing into Bethany’s care packages. Baked goods were out. Obvious medical supplies were out. Cigarillos were out. Runes, staff blades, robes and other such magical items were out. Smalls were also out, just in case they were the sort of smalls to encourage immorality.

Basically, Alain’s care packages had shrunk to the point of being mostly socks. Maybe she should try hiding the tea _in_ the socks? Assuming the Templars wouldn’t find it and decide it was blood mage tea because it was hiding from them.

The only other item she could be sure was getting through with any regularity was a book. She picked out the most pious-looking one in the market, or if Sebastian was around, had him do it, and the Templars seemed inclined to overlook them in favor of confiscating books with actual entertainment value.

So, Alain was getting regular shipments of socks and a very dull book. She wouldn’t even be bothering anymore, but if nothing else she thought Alain might appreciate the physical reminders that there was someone on the outside who cared. And once Meredith had started on her ‘periodically lock everyone up in their cell while I search for blood mages’ kick, Anders had made it very clear that any distraction in solitary was a welcome distraction.

“I have the Chant of Light memorized,” he said, sounding utterly repulsed with himself.

So yeah. Socks and a very dull book were all she could manage, but at least they were something.

Sebastian was generally pretty good at picking out the book- as pious was his genre of choice, he’d generally read most of the offerings and was able to pick out the one with the least amount of ‘magic is a sin in the eyes of the Maker’. Today, however, he was taking his sweet time, returning to one title again and again as they waited for him, before she finally got impatient and picked it up.

“ _The Search for the True Prophet_?” she read. “That doesn’t seem likely to actually make it to Alain.”

“It wouldn’t. I just-” Sebastian said, frowning. He tried to snatch the book back from her, and she held it out of reach.

“You just what?” she asked.

“It’s something Dorian said,” he admitted. “We talk a bit. I offered my services as a lay brother, but our discussions have mostly been about the differences in our Chantries. It’s a more severe split than I thought. Did any of you know that the Imperial Chantry teaches that Andraste was a mage?”

“Yes,” said Fenris and Anders in exactly the same tone at exactly the same time. They then both looked _deeply_ uncomfortable and slid farther apart.

“Well, it’s news to me,” Hawke consoled him, handing the book back. “So you want to buy it for yourself?”

“I really shouldn’t,” Sebastian said. “It’s borderline blasphemous, and-”

“Then I’ll buy it for you, and you can do your sacred duty and write corrections in the margins,” she said.

“I’m supposed to be shedding my worldly possessions, not accumulating more,” Sebastian protested.

“You aren’t under a vow of poverty yet,” she reminded him. “And you might not be, if you ever reclaim Starkhaven.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “You know Hawke, we never have discussed what you believe in.”

“Really? If the entire city doesn’t know my beliefs by now then I clearly need to shout louder. Maybe I should buy a bullhorn.”

“Not what you believe, as in what you think should happen. What you believe _in_. What do you think of Andraste, for example? Do you believe she could have been a mage?”

“I believe that Andraste inspired a religion and died,” she replied. “Which renders everything else a bit academic, don’t you think?”

Sebastian frowned, but allowed her to wrap the book up for him as he picked out the one they’d send to Alain.

\---

Alain himself was loitering in the Gallows Courtyard, sporting a fresh bruise under one eye and a split lip- the kind you go from biting down too hard. Knight-Captain Cullen was, predictably, there as well.

“Eyes out for Karras,” she said, and the men scattered, Anders staying close to the exit, Sebastian striking up conversation with some of the recruits milling about, and Fenris going to peruse some of the items in the weapons shop. She gave the gland to Solivitus- who looked almost delighted- and then approached the Knight-Captain.

“Hawke,” Cullen said.

“Cullen,” she replied. “Might I ask a favor of you?”

“You- want to ask _me_ for something?” Cullen asked, shocked.

“Just a very little something,” she assured him. “Hardly anything at all, really. It’s just I’ve been giving Alain care packages, and as he’s standing over there I was wondering if maybe-”

“All care packages must be checked before they can be disseminated,” Cullen said.

“Well, isn’t it lucky for me that the Knight-Captain himself is standing right in front of me,” she said, thrusting the box at him.

He looked annoyed, but took it with a sigh and started going through it. “What are these?” he asked, holding up one of the atemoyas.

“They’re called atemoyas. They’re some kind of apple-pinecone thing that tastes like toffee. They’re from Rivain. Isabela _adores_ them, and she thought maybe he’d like a taste of home too.”

“An apple-pinecone thing that tastes like toffee,” Cullen repeated skeptically.

“I got it from Harris’ shop. He’s got two boys in amongst the Templar recruits, and he’s been charging me double for everything since the demonstration, so I’m fairly certain that there’s no magic involved in the making of that produce.”

Cullen acquiesced and returned the box to her, the socks, tea, and book apparently passing inspection without the need for commentary.

“So speaking about Alain…” she said.

“Look, you’re right in that Karras visits his rooms at night,” Cullen said. “But Alain hasn’t raised any complaints, and I’ve seen no sign of blood magic use on Karras, which makes me think that it’s a consensual relationship. I don’t like it- I think it’s unnatural- but it happens. Mages and Templars can, occasionally, come together and find common ground.”

“Cullen, he’s standing out here with a black eye.”

“Sometimes people like that, too.” Cullen shifted uncomfortably and refusing to meet her eyes. “Karras is a very experienced officer, and I don’t want to lose him to charges of moral corruption.”

Charges of moral corruption were the very least of what he deserved to be drummed out for, but before she could say as much, Cullen added. “And Alain would almost certainly be made Tranquil for having corrupted him.”

She bit down on her cheek and counted back from ten, very, very slowly.

She knew what had happened to Cullen in Kinloch Hold during the Blight. Or, at least, the rumors of such had trickled into her ears from the barracks via Varric and his Templar drinking buddies. Most of the time, she was able to excuse his comments on that basis, in much the same way she was able to forgive Fenris’ remarks about Merrill.

But there were differences between Cullen and Fenris that she couldn’t ignore. For one thing, Fenris had a lifetime of bad experiences telling him not to trust mages, though Anders liked to accuse him otherwise; for Cullen, it really was the one time. For another, Fenris was capable of respecting and even liking mages as individuals- Cullen did not seem to possess that capability. Perhaps most significantly, Cullen was in a position of real authority over the mages, while Fenris not only lacked that position, but had never exercised his right to inform the Templars of where apostates were hiding.

It was exactly that sort of thing that made her fear that one of these days they would be having what would appear to be a perfectly civil chat that turned into her stabbing the guy, murdering her way through the Templar ranks with particular attention paid to Meredith and Karras, causing her friends to turn upon her and each other, and calling down an Exalted March upon the city that had the unmitigated gall to name her The Champion.

“I…understand,” she managed through the red haze, eventually. ‘One of these days’ wasn’t going to be today. “I take it I can give Alain his care package?”

“You may,” Cullen allowed.

She nodded, but didn’t even manage to turn all the way before Cullen called after her.

“Hawke?”

“Cullen.”

“Please, please stop bringing your apostate friends to the Gallows.”

“Cullen, I am the Champion. I do not have apostate friends,” she said, for the sheer pleasure of seeing the face he pulled at that. “Anders is a Grey Warden. Bethany is also a Grey Warden. Merrill is the First in the Dalish Sabrae Clan, which places her outside the jurisdiction of Chantry law. And, believe it or not, there’s now Dorian, who as a Circle member in good standing isn’t an apostate even if you squint and yell ‘blood magic’.”

“Magister Dorian of House Danarius?” Cullen scoffed. “Yeah, I can see that ending well.”

“Dorian is not a magister, nor was he ever willingly affiliated with Danarius. If you ever speak to him- and I don’t recommend that course of action- please keep those facts in mind.”

She turned sharply on her heel, a move she’d learned when she was an entirely different person to mock Carver and his goose-stepping antics, and marched over to Alain.

“I fell,” Alain said as she approached. “I fell, that’s all.”

“I believe you,” she lied, before adding more truthfully. “Also, I come bearing gifts.”

“Ooh, more socks!” he said, opening the box back up. “Hey, there’s other stuff here too! A lot of other stuff.”

She watched as he happily tore through the package for maybe an entirely, and then Sebastian whistled sharply to warn them that Karras was coming.

Alain went very still beside her.

“Ser Karras!” she greeted him loudly before he could announce himself. “Don’t worry, everything here was certified 100% Templar-approved by your Knight-Captain.”

She didn’t need to look behind her to tell that Cullen had looked over at the mention of his rank. It was written in the way Karras stayed some feet away from them, out of his line of sight.

“Is it now?” He asked.

“It is indeed,” she said, shooting him her most winsome smile.

“And I do hope the boy isn’t telling tales?” Karras more threatened Alain than asked Hawke.

Hawke answered anyway. “Oh, you mean about his fall?” _Because we both know that’s a tall tale._

“Yes, the lad is a bit clumsy, isn’t he?” Karras said.

“Yes. A _klutz_ , as my sister would say,” she replied. “She’s in Weisshaupt on Warden business of late, and Ander is apparently a contagious language.”

“Weisshaupt, eh? That’s quite the distance,” he remarked as though considering making the voyage himself.

“Yes, it is,” she confirmed, raising her voice once more. “Now, don’t let me keep you, I’m sure you have important business to attend to!”

Karras smiled thinly and walked away.

“I didn’t fall,” Alain said quietly, once he was gone. “He’s- he’s still-”

“I know,” Hawke said, just as quietly. “I’m just trying to keep things from getting worse from you.”

Alain chuckled weakly, wetly, bitterly, his eyes over-bright.

“Would you like a hug?” she offered.

Alain nodded, and she wrapped her arms around him, letting him hide his face in her chest while he cried.

Hawke wasn’t a small woman by any measure, something she was proudest of when she was hugging someone. Almost everyone- more or less everyone not Aveline, including Anders, her parents, and Carver- seemed small and protectable in her arms, like she could just carry them away to somewhere safe where no one would ever hurt them again.

She couldn’t do that with Alain. She could just give him a few moments of comfort and the illusion of privacy, while she thought, guiltily, _Thank the Maker, this isn’t Bethany. This isn’t Merrill. This isn’t Anders. This isn’t Dorian. Thank the Maker._

She didn’t even believe in the Maker.

* * *

 

Merrill was back at home when she returned, speaking with Dorian about blood magic.

“But you really don’t notice any difference when you cast with your own blood as opposed to your enemies?” Dorian was asking. “None whatsoever?”

“Well, I notice that I’m not bleeding and there isn’t a cut on my arm. That was very distracting when I was first learning how to cast with my blood,” Merrill replied. “But in terms of spellcasting, no, it’s no more powerful coming from their blood than mine. I never even considered that it might be more powerful to take from their blood than give from mine.”

“That’s fascinating,” Dorian said. “Because I know for a fact that Magisters get more power from unwilling sacrifices than willing ones- Danarius demonstrated _that_ over and over again. I wonder what the difference is.”

“I sometimes get the impression from Anders that humans see the Beyond differently than the elves do,” Merrill said. “Though, I suppose First Enchanter Orsino might see the Beyond as humans do. I don’t know. I’ve never really gotten a chance to speak to an elven Circle mage.”

“It might have a great deal to do with culture,” Dorian mused. “We Tevinters are rather infamous for our taking, after all.”

“Oh, Hawke!” Merrill said, jumping up to greet her. “You’re back!”

“I’m back, and I killed a dragon!” she confirmed, holding Merrill close to her even after she’d gotten her welcome home kiss. “What have you been up to?”

“Merrill’s been distracting me from a moral dilemma,” Dorian answered, as Merrill searched her face for a clue as to what was wrong. “You’ve got mail from Tevinter.” He slid the letter over the kitchen table towards her.

“How is that a moral dilemma for you?” she asked, taking the letter. “How is that a moral dilemma at all?”

“I spent a good twenty minutes of my life staring at that thing, debating whether or not to snoop, before Merrill found me,” Dorian admitted.

Hawke opened the letter and scanned it briefly. “Don’t worry- it’s from Feynriel, nothing to do with you.”

“Feynriel?” Dorian asked.

She let Merrill explain things as she read his letter more carefully. _Sometimes I look around and think I understand the Templars in Kirkwall._

Yeah, Tevinter seemed to do that to people.

“You what?” Dorian squawked, bringing her attention back to the ongoing conversation.

“Well, he said that he’s heard that Dreamers were more common in Tevinter…” Merrill began.

“And you believed that? You just let him throw himself into the jaws of the Imperium?” Dorian demanded.

“It’s not like he gave us much of a choice,” Hawke pointed out. “He’d already left the clan by the time we got back.”

Dorian sighed in frustration. “And that didn’t seem like cause for concern.”

“He sounds fine,” Hawke said dubiously.

“In his letter,” Dorian said, exasperated. “Do you have any idea how many bloody fine sounding letters I’ve written over the years?”

“Then I dub you Ser Dorian the ‘bloody fine sounding letters’ expert and ask you what you make of this,” she said, handing the letter over to him.

Dorian read it carefully, twice over, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure why he’s acting like the tale of your defeat of the Arishok is news,” he said finally. “Word of that traveled fairly quickly, especially considering Fenris was there.”

“Why would Fenris’ presence make a difference?” Hawke asked.

“It was less Fenris and more ‘an elf matching the description of Magister Danarius’ former bodyguard, and also possessing his supposedly unique abilities’ that made it significant,” Dorian explained with a brief imitation she assumed was of someone he greatly disliked. “So either someone had replicated his lyrium tattoos, or Danarius’ property was now playing a crucial role in matters of state without his oversight.” Dorian snorted. “He managed to spin it as Fenris playing a part in some kind of long-term plot of Danarius’ to destabilize the Qunari without needed to give everything the veneer of a state-sanctioned affair. It won him a fair bit of standing- you wouldn’t believe some of the parties we were suddenly getting invitations to after that version of events started to circulate. Half of the people giving them didn’t even believe his story, they just didn’t feel secure enough to gamble on being right.”

“Really?” Hawke asked, not at all okay with having caused Danarius to experience any kind of success.

“He’d gotten deeply involved with the Siccari just after Fenris escaped. It ended badly, and publicly, but it lent an air of credibility to his story,” Dorian said, hugging himself a little, his thumb running absently along his left forearm, where the scar he’d shown Merrill in Darktown was.

“What’s the Siccari?” Merrill asked.

“They’re a fringe political group bent of kicking the Qunari out of Seheron once and for all, using any means possible. They’re officially nonexistent, of course, but that just means that the gossip concerning their activities gets even juicier.”

“Was it not widely known that Fenris had run, somehow?” Hawke asked, still trying to fit this into the picture she’d had of Danarius sitting back in his mansion in Minrathous, ordering wave after wave of slave catchers and would-be apprentices after Fenris.

“No, it really wasn’t. Officially, he’d been taken captive by the Qunari. That’s the official status of every slave that was left behind on Seheron- most of the Soporati too. Some people had a vague idea that he’d gone missing, and those involved in the _non-contracti_ business- _non-contracti_ are black market slaves, from outside the Imperium- knew because Danarius used their services to try and wrangle Fenris back. But common thought was that he was still on Seheron. And then he showed up at your side when you killed the Arishok. It was a bit of a shock to Tevinter high society.”

She nodded, because she was more okay with being a shock to Tevinter high society than being good for Danarius’ reputation. “So the Imperium knew the nitty-gritty details of my duel with the Arishok soon after the fact. Anything else that sticks out?”

“Nothing that sounds like a warning sign- actually the mentions of blood magic and Templars are encouraging.”

“Well, that’s certainly a change,” Merrill remarked. “Normally blood magic and Templars are discouraging things to mention!”

“That’s exactly why it’s encouraging to see them here in this context,” Dorian said, as though that were a statement that made sense. “If his master were reading this, he wouldn’t want anything so despairing reaching your ears. It’s possible that Feynriel was simply kept cloistered while he was working on exercising control on his talents- that’s a perfectly legitimate teaching practice. When I started studying necromancy I barely looked up from my books for three months.”

Dorian nodded, mostly to himself, and handed the letter back to her.

“And now you’re going to write to the one good magister in existence about him aren’t you?”

Dorian clutched at his chest as though she’d mortally wounded him. “I’ll have you know, there’s more than one magister who is a good person. There are as many as five!”

“I stand corrected,” she said, unable to keep the smirk from her face.

It was only after Dorian had left and she’d given a reenactment of the dragon fight for Sandal and Merrill’s amusement over dinner that she realized that it was pretty unlikely that Dorian had come over looking to discuss the finer points of blood magic and agonize over her mail.

“Did Dorian need anything specifically, love?” she asked.

“Well…” Merrill said slowly. “It’s kind of a mage problem.”

Hawke blinked at that, because mage solidarity was one of those Anders things that Merrill was skeptical about.

“Or, a problem that it would be difficult to explain to someone who isn’t a mage,” she continued thoughtfully. “Like explaining blurred vision to someone who has been blind their whole life. Oh. That sounds insulting, doesn’t it?”

“I know a few blind people who would disagree with you,” Hawke said.

Merrill made a humming noise as she considered how to phrase things.

“Is this related to how he hasn’t been using offensive spells?” Hawke asked.

“Yes,” Merrill said. “Among other things- he’s worried that the collar Danarius put him in has altered his ability to interact with the Beyond. I think that Keeper Marethari could help him- like we did with Feynriel? If we could enter his dreams… it might point us in the right direction at least. I’ve asked around, and some of Arianni’s friends have told me that the clan is still camped on the mountain.”

She had a point, Hawke conceded internally: she wasn’t sure how ‘avoiding offensive spellwork’ translated to ‘better literally enter the man’s dreams’, but she could tell from the way Merrill was speaking about it that it was one of those things a mage would grasp intuitively. “I take it that’s not going to be as simple as a trek up to Sundermount and a few days of Dalish hospitality.”

“No,” Merrill confirmed. “For one thing, I’m not sure Keeper Marethari would help Dorian, necessarily. She helped Feynriel, but he was elf-blooded, his mother was Dalish, and if he’d been possessed he would have made an unstoppable abomination. Dorian… he was a slave, in Tevinter, which should garner him some empathy- what’s the point of remembering that pain if we never do anything with it- and he told me that Danarius’ library has some books about the People, and he’d be happy to part with them, especially if it might smooth his way. Some of them are very old- written in Elvallas. I promised to help him pick out a suitable title.” Merrill paused for a moment before admitting “Dorian can _read_ Elvallas and I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s supposed to be for the Dalish- for the Keepers only. I mean, it’s not like he knew that when he learned- he said that he probably wouldn’t have even _wanted_ to learn, but Danarius had a fascination with the Ancient Elvhenan and he wanted some warning if he was going to experiment with what he was researching- but it’s still weird, a human being able to read Elvallas. I told him that he shouldn’t tell anyone back at camp about it. They might react badly.”

Hawke nodded. Then, after a moment’s silence, she asked “But there’s more?”

“He wants Fenris to go- into his dreams, in the Beyond, that is. He didn’t say very much about what his dreams were about, but I’m pretty sure he’s having nightmares about Danarius,” Merrill said. “I think I understand why he’d want Fenris, because Fenris already knows the details of what Danarius was doing to him, but I’m not sure Fenris wants to relive them any more than Dorian does. Or enter the Beyond again at all. Dorian said he’d ask him first.”

“But there’s _still_ more?” Hawke guessed even as she nodded.

Merrill sighed. “My attempts to fix the Eluvian have stalled,” she admitted. “I don’t know why- the arulin’holm should have fixed it by now! And Audacity will no longer speak with me- not while I’m in Kirkwall at least.”

Hawke felt a shiver of fear creep up her spine. “You want to go talk with the demon face-to-face?” she checked.

“Not exactly,” Merrill said. “I’m not going to let him out of his prison, but I think I need to go to the prison again.”

Hawke sighed. Oddly enough, killing a fuckton of demons didn’t grant her any special knowledge about how they worked, but living in Kirkwall had kind of given her the impression that the best way to avoid possession was to keep as far away from the demons as possible. Still, she believed Merrill when she said that she had no intention of ever letting the demon out, and that there was no way for the demon to leave its prison unaided. And she trusted that Merrill wouldn’t let it out.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked Merrill.

“Of course, ma vhenan,” Merrill replied.

“When you go through the library with Dorian, check and make sure the answers you’re looking for aren’t there first.”

* * *

 

There was no _The Eluvian Owner’s Manual and Repair Guide_ amongst the titles in the library, so they made their unhappy way up to Sundermount with Fenris and Dorian in tow. The latter was carry not one but three tomes, wrapped in parchment and oilpaper securely in his pack; the former was wary and tense, keeping one hand on his sword. Merrill was uncharacteristically silent, as was Hawke, though that had more to do with the way she was weighed down with preserves than being lost in thought- normally when they were out and about, she wasn’t carrying so much jam.

“Why jam?” Varric would later ask, when he’d gotten her very drunk and was coaxing the story out of her in fits and starts. She would blubber out some answer about how food made people get along better, how she used to bring food when Merrill was new to Kirkwall and still visiting her clan every now and again and it seemed to make the Dalish a little easier around her, how most of that jam was made from fruits that weren’t common in Kirkwall, and she thought they might appreciate the variety.

Silly her, thinking this might go smoothly if she just spread some jam over it.

They made it to the Dalish camp with as little incident as there ever was on Sundermount: no darkspawn, only the one bear, and very few undead. The Dalish watched them more closely than she thought was usual, though it was hard to tell if that was because whatever the Keeper had been saying about Merrill had grown in the intervene years, the fact that she’d returned at all, or the fact that she come with a strange human man who was eyeing their camp with undisguised fascination.

“So that’s what an aravel looks like,” Dorian remarked to no one in particular as she unloaded her jams on Arianni. “AIR-a-vel? Ahr-RA-vel? Or-ah-VEL?”

“You had it right the first time,” Merrill told him.

“Oi, shem,” said Ilen. “If it’s not in the shop, it’s not for sale.”

The hostility in his tone didn’t really seem to penetrate, because Dorian jauntily replied “Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of acquiring an aravel by any means- I’m simply curious. I’ve never seen one before; I’ve only ever read about them.”

Ilen’s skeptical look deepened. “We’re not here for your curiosity.”

“Oh, I know,” Dorian assured him. “I’ll keep my questions to myself then, hahren.”

 _Hahren_ was one of those elven words even Hawke knew, because it was one of those words that had survived life in the alienage, like _vhenadahl_ , or _fenedhis lasa_ , or _shemlen_. Athenril had called her _hahren_ once, very, very sarcastically when she and Bethany were leaving her smuggling cabal. _Fenedhis lasa_ and _shemlen_ she heard pretty regularly, and Merrill utterly _adored_ Kirkwall’s _vhenadahl_. Still, it was kind of strange to hear the word come out of Dorian’s mouth, and she could see Fenris’ eyebrow shoot up towards his fringe. Merrill however, was beaming proudly- clearly this was something she and Dorian had discussed, so she deferred to her judgment and let the moment pass without comment.

Ilen kept his eyes on Dorian as the Keeper stepped out of her aravel and beckoned them towards her.

“Welcome home, da’len,” the Keeper said.

“This isn’t a homecoming, Keeper, though I am glad to see you,” Merrill said.

“If you’re not returning to us, then what has brought you back?”

“I have something to ask of you,” Merrill said. “On behalf of a friend.”

Dorian stepped forward and inclined his head as Merrill introduced them. “Keeper Marethari, this is Dorian Pavus. He’s having trouble with his connection to the Beyond, and I thought you might be able to help.”

The Keeper sighed. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to bring your friend to the Circle, but we have too much of a presence here as it is without harboring an apostate- let alone a human apostate.”

“I know that the clan has become well known,” Merrill said, and Hawke couldn’t help but get the impression that she was missing something. “But I don’t think this would require Dorian to move in with you.”

“And I am actually a registered Circle member,” Dorian said. “The Templars shouldn’t trouble you on my behalf.”

“Then why not ask for help from your Circle?” the Keeper asked.

“I- it’s complicated,” Dorian sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “Is it- would it be possible for us to speak somewhere less observed?”

The Keeper regarded him for a moment before nodding. “There’s a ledge overlooking the camp. We’ll be within sight of the camp, but we won’t be overheard.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hawke said.

They followed her up the mountainside path, such a short walk that they didn’t even run into any undead, and settled in on the flat rocks that had been arranged around a fire pit.

“Why can’t you ask your Circle for help?” the Keeper asked Dorian again.

“Because the Circle I’m registered is the Circle of Vyrantium, in Tevinter, and I am in no hurry to go back,” Dorian explained.

The Keeper looked him up and down, but she looked at Merrill when she said “You’re a Magister?”

“No. No, I’m not,” Dorian explained. “I- there was- it’s-” He sighed, and covered his eyes. “ _Venhedis_ , I really must come up with some good way of explaining this to people who don’t already know.”

“Dorian and I belonged to the same man in Tevinter,” Fenris explained for him.

“Oh,” the Keeper said, and Hawke was gratified to see her soften slightly. It seemed that Merrill had been correct- the memory of the Imperium’s enslavement did give Dorian and the Dalish a space for shared empathy.

“Yes, well, he’s dead now,” Dorian said, straightening himself back up. “Fenris crushed his heart, I lit his body on fire, it was- not as cathartic as I was hoping it would be, but that’s not the problem. The problem is that for five years and bit before that he had me in a magic suppression collar.” Dorian reached into the pack he’d laid at his feet and withdrew the collar itself, wrapped in cloth. He handed it to the Keeper, who took it with a frown. “It almost completely severed me from the Fade. It wasn’t like I was Tranquil, but I was completely unable to cast, and I didn’t dream. Now that it’s off I can cast, and I can dream, but I have very little control over either activity.”

The Keeper turned the collar over and over in her hands, looking lost in thought.

“I realize that helping me might place you in a difficult position,” Dorian continued. “So I came prepared.” He withdrew one of the books from his pack, and unwrapped it, displaying the Elvallas writing on the cover.

The Keeper nearly dropped the collar in surprise “Where did you get that?” she asked, reaching out to touch it reverently.

“My- my owner, Danarius, had a fascination with Ancient Elvhenan artifacts and lore. His library here in Kirkwall is still intact,” Dorian explained. “Merrill picked out three titles that she thought might interest you.”

“Three?” the Keeper repeated numbly.

“Three,” Dorian confirmed. “That should be enough, to say that I’m not taking advantage of you, yes?”

“I- it would be. But I’m afraid I can offer you no help,” the Keeper said, and to her credit she looked truly pained as she handed the collar back to him. “I have heard stories of people whose magic was suppressed and stories of people whose dreams were drained, but they are stories from the time of Old Arlathan, and none of them involve a physical device such as this. Generally, the people who suffered so were under the effects of a curse made in the name of the Forgotten Ones, a problem with was resolved when they proved themselves worthy and had it lifted by one of the Creators.”

“And your gods were all locked away, save for the Dread Wolf,” Dorian said.

“And you would _not_ want his help,” the Keeper said, once again looking at Merrill as she spoke to Dorian.

“But Keeper-”

“No, da’len.”

“I don’t mean Fen’Harel, I mean the ritual you did for Feynriel, when he was troubled by his dreams. You sent Hawke and Fenris into the Beyond to help. It might help, to be able to see Dorian’s connection to the Beyond first hand like that, right?”

“I don’t think it would,” the Keeper said.

“But surely we can try?” Merrill pressed.

“I’m afraid not,” the Keeper said. “There’s much risk involved in such a ritual- if the situation with Feynriel had been any less dire, I would have refused Arianni as well.”

Merrill opened her mouth to protest further, but the Keeper interrupted her by standing up. “No,” the Keeper said. “I am sorry, I would truly like to have helped, but I am not capable of doing so.”

She started walking away and got four steps before Dorian spoke up. “Keep the books.”

The Keeper stopped and turned around. Dorian stood, holding out the book to her with one hand and holding onto his pack with the other. “Keep the books,” he repeated, handing the one he had out over to her, and then digging around in his pack for the others. “From what Merrill’s told me, they’ve got a bigger claim to belonging here than they do Danarius’ library, and you’ll save me the trouble of lugging them back down the mountain.”

“I-” For a moment she was sure the Keeper was going to relent. There was certainly something she desperately wanted to say. But what actually came out of her mouth was “Thank you.”

Hawke watched her make her way down to camp, heading straight for the knot of hunters that had gathered not far from the bottom of the ledge, barely even pretending they weren’t eavesdropping.

“Well _that_ was useless,” Fenris scoffed.

“I’m so sorry, Dorian, I really thought she would be able to help us,” Merrill apologized.

“It’s no bother,” Dorian said, though he looked very bothered.

“Come on, let’s go visit the demon,” Hawke said with a sigh.

“Why did you give the Keeper the books?” Fenris demanded as they headed out. “She’s certainly not going to help you if you just give over your leverage.”

“It’s not leverage,” Dorian said. “It’s a fruit basket.”

“I assume that’s some kind of metaphor?” Fenris asked.

“Partially a metaphor, partially I have no idea how else to translate the concept into Trade but literally,” Dorian said.

“Ah,” Fenris replied. Clearly that made sense to someone who spoke Tevene.

“A ‘fruit basket’ is another term for... an introductory gift, I suppose? Whenever a magister or a wealthy enough merchant buys a new property, they receive gifts from their new neighbors. Used to be a fruit basket, now generally people compete to buy the most extravagant gifts possible and just throw the fruit in on top,” Dorian explained for her and Merrill’s benefit.

“So, a housewarming present?” Hawke checked.

“Sure,” Dorian agreed.

“But the clan has been here longer than you have,” Merrill pointed out. “And you and Keeper Marethari don’t exactly live in the same neighborhood.”

“Well, there’s another layer to the whole housewarming present competition game,” Dorian said. “You’ve got the actual gift-giving tradition, which is a means of welcome, or less idealistically, of making sure the new family knows that they’re being watched by people with means. Then there’s the competition, which is all about trying to waste more money than your neighbors to show how much money you have to waste. Then there’s all sorts of _meaning_ that can be attached to the type of gift: a veiled insult, a threat, an outright assassination attempt, and every so often an offer of alliance.”

“Now the Keeper knows what you want, and that we’re sitting on a library that might be full of old books she might want,” Fenris concluded. “So should she ever figure out a way to help, she knows that she can get something out of it.”

Dorian shifted slightly at the ‘we’ but nodded and said “That’s about the size of it.”

“Oh, that’s rather convoluted, isn’t it?” Merrill asked. “Do you think she picked up on it?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Dorian said. “And while we’re on the subject of Keeper Marethari, did it seem to anyone else that she was hiding something?”

Fenris made a noise that probably meant something like 'A mage in a position of authority is hiding something? When does that ever happen?', Hawke nodded, and Merrill said “There’s something wrong. The clan shouldn’t even be here.”

“How do you mean?” Dorian asked.

“A Dalish clan doesn’t stay in one place for too long. We _can’t_ : it makes the humans nervous, and humans can get very swordy when they’re nervous. No offense.”

“None taken,” both humans replied.

“But the camp’s been here on Sundermount for six years. It was one thing when there weren’t any halla, but that’s not the case anymore. They should have left, especially with Kirkwall’s politics being what they are.”

“Do you think the conflict between the Mages and Templars in Kirkwall will reach your clan?” Hawke asked. She hadn’t really considered that. The one city was more than enough responsibility for her without dealing with people living outside of it.

“The city elves have a saying: ‘It doesn’t matter which way the wind blows, it’ll rain in the alienage’. The Templars have already come out here once- and if Aveline tries to protect the city elves, the clan might make an easier target,” Merrill shrugged.

“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Hawke promised. “If anyone tries to slaughter your clan, they’ll be in for a shock.”

Merrill smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh look, an army of the undead,” Dorian interrupted then. “And it’s not one of mine.”

Merrill sighed, and readied her staff. “I hate to say it, but my ancestors were not thinking clearly when they decided to bury people on top of a mountain.”

* * *

 

Thinking clearly was just not something elves were doing a lot of on that mountain, as it happened.

Their first clue as to how badly things were about to go was when they approached the statue where the demon was bound, only to find that the thing was empty. They got to talking about when the demon had been bound- during the war between the Elvhenan and the Ancient Tevinter Imperium, so naturally everyone had opinions and bits of folklore to speak about besides her- but Merrill was adamant that Audacity could not have freed himself. Dorian agreed.

Hawke was mentally running through what she knew of who was left from the mage underground- someone powerful enough, knowledgeable enough, and desperate enough to release a demon such as Merrill’s- when the even worse reality presented itself: Keeper Marethari.

“Kill me, and it dies too,” she explained as the four of them gaped at her, horror-struck. “Merrill will finally be safe.”

Oddly enough, Merrill didn’t want to do that. Hawke didn’t want to do that. Nobody wanted to do that, it was terrible idea. Unfortunately it was a terrible idea in the form of a pride demon possessing a powerful mage, and shapeshifting into various people to better taunt her lover, so it was also the best idea they had going for them at the moment.

Eventually, the shape-shifting stopped, and the Keeper collapsed on the floor. “Da’len?” she asked.

Merrill ran for her. Fenris watched suspiciously, his sword still drawn. Dorian wasn’t in her line of sight, but she could hear him rummaging around in his pack behind her.

“Keeper,” Merrill asked.

“You’ve beaten it, da’len,” the Keeper said as she got to her feet. “You are so much stronger than I imagined. The demon is dead.”

“Keeper, I-”

“Let’s leave this awful place. The clan should-”

“Merrill,” Dorian called out. “Remember how she said that demon was bound to her life? That this would only end when she was dead?”

Merrill turned towards them, away from the Keeper. Hawke could see her hand reaching for the dagger she kept near her hip, just in case…

“I think I know a better way,” Dorian said. “Catch!”

Merrill caught the collar at the same time that the Keeper stabbed her in the thigh. Hawke and Fenris rushed forwards, Fenris drawing the demon’s attention as she went to Merrill, Dorian conjuring protective barriers around the three of them.

“Hawke,” Merrill pleaded, pressing the collar into her hand.

With Fenris holding the demon’s attention it was a simple thing to sneak up behind the Keeper and fasten the collar around her neck. She fell down once more with a cry of “No!”

She couldn’t tell if that was actually the Keeper, or if that was the demon. Fenris looked like he didn’t care to find out, but she froze him with a look.

“How many chances to trick us do you intend to give it?” he demanded.

“Just this one,” she assured him, sparing a glance back at Merrill, whose thigh was being attended to by Dorian.

“What have you done?” the Keeper croaked.

“It’s the collar I showed you earlier,” Dorian explained. “I’m sorry. It was the only way I could think of to end this without killing you.”

“You haven’t ended it. Merely suppressed the inevitable,” the Keeper said wearily. “Da’len, the demon is still within me, even if it can no longer take control. This isn’t over.”

“No!” Merrill protested. “No, don’t you dare ask that of me again! How could you? I never asked for this!”

“No, you asked to bring this fate down upon yourself! And then you asked me to stand by and watch! I couldn’t do that, da’len. I couldn’t.”

“But you could have asked me to kill you? You still expect me to-” Merrill choked up, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of her harsh breathing as she tried to get her tears under control enough to speak. “He was locked away! He wasn’t a threat!”

“It was waiting!”

“For me to open his prison, which was not something I would have ever done!”

“Do you think it would have told you everything? Do you think it wouldn’t trick you?”

“Do you think I haven’t guarded against that? You taught me to be careful, but you also taught me that our past was something precious, something we should strive to recover!”

“Not this! This is not something that should be recovered! That thing has stolen so much from our clan, so much life and promise, and that is the least treachery it was capable of doing. You must see, da’len, that this evil cannot be allowed in our world.”

“It’s already in our world, Keeper. It has been for centuries, if not longer.”

“It was forgotten!”

“It’s not a Keeper’s job to forget! It’s our job to remember, our duty, even the bad things! _You_ taught me that!”

For a moment the two women stared at each other in anguish, and then the Keeper sighed. “It’s too late for arguments. What’s done is done. You had your dealings with the demon, and I now carry it within me.” She turned to Dorian, touching her hand to the collar around her neck. “How long do you think this will hold?”

“I could never find a way out of that, and believe me, I was trying. I had to have Anders- another one of Hawke’s people- take it off for me. The lock will only respond to magic, and there’s no way to tamper with the collar itself,” Dorian said. After a moment he added “But I don’t know what sort of a long-term effect it’ll have on a demon.”

“We’ll have to do this quickly, then,” the Keeper said, standing. Fenris reared back, his sword at the ready in case he needed to strike quickly. “If I have the chance to warn my clan what is to come, I would like to take it,” she told him.

He nodded, and let her pass. Dorian helped Merrill to her feet, and Hawke pulled her arm over her shoulder and helped her limp down the mountainside.

\---

She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t been prepared for things to escalate to violence. In hindsight, it was so obvious. “Hey, so I decided that I didn’t want the blood magic using woman I’ve been telling you to shun for fear of the taint to die of demon possession, so I got the demon to possess me instead. Plan was to have her kill me, but luckily the Tevinter mage she brought with her had a slave collar that stops magic and magic-type things to stick on me and now I have to make arrangements for ritual suicide” certainly seemed like the sort of information people would react poorly to.

Still. It was kind of a shock. One minute, things were tense and awkward, not very much worse than they normally were among the Dalish, and the next, blades were being unsheathed, arrows notched, and one of the hunters, Ineria, had grabbed Dorian by the arm.

To say that Dorian had flinched would be an understatement. His shoulders had hunched up so far they were practically covering his ears, his free hand was bunched into the material of his robes and his eyes were screwed shut as he tense in anticipation of a blow that wasn’t coming.

She would like to think that the severity of his reaction had something to do with that. More likely, it was the fact that Fenris was glowing and had his sword pointed at her throat. Hawke had her arms a bit full- literally- with Merrill, so she reacted slowly, only getting as far as wrapping her hand around her dagger hilt when everyone froze.

“Release him,” Fenris growled.

“Stand down,” Fenarel ordered. “Ineria, stand down.”

Ineria let Dorian go. Fenris didn’t drop his sword, but he did back away a step. Dorian, for his part, opened his eyes and relaxed his posture a bit.

“Sorry, I- I’m sorry,” he said. “I know what that _thing_ is like. Believe me, if the other options weren’t demonic possession and death, I would never have done it.”

Ineria looked skeptical, but Fenarel placated her with “Merrill was our First once. She wouldn’t bring a Magister to camp, let alone allow him to collar the Keeper.”

“But she would use blood magic, she would consort with a demon, she would place the entire clan at risk,” Ineria argued.

“Merrill is not the threat here,” Keeper Marethari said. “The demon is.”

“And you have arranged it so that the demon may be killed, but only if you died as well,” Paivel said. “We have no First, let alone a Second. There will be no one to become Keeper after you.”

“Not from this clan, no,” the Keeper admitted. “But we will send word to some of the other clans- Istimaethoriel, or Fenan, or Lavellan- and one of them will send their first or second to take my place. I can remain until then.”

“And what of Merrill?” Ineria demanded. “What happens when she next brings destruction down upon us?”

“I-” Merrill began, but she was still crying too hard to form a coherent answer.

“This isn’t Merrill’s doing,” Hawke said.

“Oh, it isn’t?” Ineria retorted. “The Eluvian isn’t Merrill’s doing, the Varterral wasn’t Merrill’s doing, the demon wasn’t Merrill’s doing?”

“She has a point,” Paivel said. “Death and loss follow the girl.”

“The girl is a fucking ray of sunshine you-”

The Keeper stood between them, and Hawke bit down on the rest of what she wanted to say.

“Will you take responsibility?” Keeper Marethari asked her. “Will you watch over Merrill, for the rest of her days, and the rest of yours?”

“Yes, of course,” Hawke replied.

“No matter what comes?”

The matter of what was coming wasn’t something she wanted to contemplate. Thankfully, she didn’t have to in this case: the answer was an obvious one.

“I love her,” Hawke said. “I mean, she’s _Merrill_.” It was like saying the ocean was wet.

“Then when you leave, don’t return with her,” she said. “Ever.”

“Merrill Sabrae, born of Alerion,” Paivel intoned. “You are cast out. You no longer have a place among the People, and we no longer recognize you as Elvhenan. Should you attempt to return, we will treat you as an invader to be killed.”

He then turned his back, and one by one the rest of the clan did the same, until only Keeper Marethari was left.

“Keeper,” Merrill begged.

“I’ll have word sent when I pass, Hawke,” the Keeper said finally, before she too turned away.

And that was that. Merrill was officially exiled.

* * *

 

Merrill wept in fits and starts, for most of the way back to Kirkwall. She cried about her loss of the clan, over Keeper Marethari, over their stubbornness and her own efforts to restore the Eluvian and all that had come from it. Hawke did a lot of hugging, and a lot of despairing over how little that seemed to help.

And then, things got worse, because why the fuck wouldn’t they get worse?

“This Keeper,” Fenris said. “She was a friend of yours?”

“She was like a mother to me,” Merrill told him. “To all of us.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

That should have been where things left off, with Fenris expressing his sympathies, and Merrill accepting it with a nod. But it wasn’t, because Merrill was hurting and Fenris wasn’t a sympathetic as he sounded.

“No, you’re not. She’s just one more mage to you. Why would you be sorry that she’s going to die?”

“I’m not sorry she’s dying,” Fenris said. “I’m sorry that she’s decided to die for you.”

“What?” It was difficult to tell which of the three of them sounded more shocked, though it was Dorian who followed up with “The hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with _me_?” Fenris asked.

“Yes, you,” Dorian said. “The woman’s just lost her family- she’s been cast out of her home, and she can’t ever return. Why would you say that to her now? Why would you say that ever?”

“Why would you, of all people, defend a malificar?”

“If Merrill’s a malificar then I really am a magister,” Dorian said. “She’s not using it to actively hurt or subjugate anyone, she’s using it to defend herself and to try to repair a historical artifact.”

“And what is there to say that she wouldn’t sacrifice one of us if she thought that would repair her precious mirror.”

“Well, she got pretty upset when the Keeper tried to sacrifice herself just now.”

“Did she?” Fenris asked. “Or is she upset because her demon in no longer around to give her hints?”

“You were there!” Dorian cried incredulously.

“As were you,” Fenris retorted. “You know how little it takes for a blood mage to become desperate. Or has the idea of losing one’s place blinded you to the realities of the situation?”

Dorian very nearly turned purple, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Hawke’s hand inched up towards her dagger: she’d seen Fenris and Dorian argue before, but not like this. It had always been over trivial matters, and generally Dorian (and occasionally Fenris) looked downright exhilarated by all the shouting.

This was different.

“Don’t you _dare_ bring what my father tried to do into this,” Dorian hissed finally. “Don’t you dare.”

“Why not?” Fenris snarled. “I cannot help the feeling that you already have brought it in.”

“And what would you know of it?” Dorian demanded. “Maybe your lack of empathy isn’t so surprising- after all, you can’t even remember your family!”

“Enough!” Hawke snapped. “This isn’t about you.”

Both Dorian and Fenris rounded upon her, a sight which might have terrified her once upon a time. Now, though, she was too tired.

“Go home,” she ordered, adding when they didn’t respond. “You heard me: go home. The city’s right over there, you’re both adults in theory, get moving and get away from us.”

Dorian looked shocked. Fenris looked confused.

“Don’t make repeat myself again,” she warned them. “Not today.”

Fenris grunted and stalked away. After a moment, Dorian followed, walking at a much more sedate pace, letting the distance between them increase.

“Oh, Hawke,” Merrill said softly.

Hawke took a deep breath in, counted to three, and the let it out before turning back to Merrill. “Do you want to go back to the Estate or the alienage, love?” she asked. “Your choice.”

“The alienage,” Merrill said after a moment’s thought.

She held out her hand, and Hawke took it.

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tevene** :  
>  _non-contracti_ : literally "not contracted". Basically, slaves who have no officially recording presence in the Imperium.
> 
>  **Elven** :  
>  _Elvallas_ : A combination of "El" (our) and "vallas" (writing), used to refer to the Elven alphabet.
> 
>  **Food** :  
> [Atemoya](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atemoya)\- a cross between a sugar apple and cherimoya, which does indeed look a bit like a pinecone/apple hybrid. Real-life ones apparently taste like piña coladas with a vanilla twist; the sugar apple is the one which tastes like toffee.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been kudosing, commenting, and bookmarking this fic, both here and on the meme. You're making writing this very worthwhile.


	8. Fenris: Smouldering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the whole 'elf brooding alone in mansion' aesthetic would be much easier to Fenris to pull off if he didn't have friends, or even if those friends weren't the kind of people to break into his house. 
> 
> Also, fun fact: one of the bullet points for this chapter's outline read "Anders you sad well-intentioned ass".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No flashbacks, but there is a reference to a non-canonical event in Anders' backstory that might be triggering.

There had been an argument unlike all the other arguments they’d had, he could remember than much. He could remember fuming all the way back to the mansion- how dare this son of a magister taunt him about what he’d had taken from him- he could remember that they’d gotten right into each other’s faces and screamed, that he’d thrown a chair, that Dorian had set a table on fire, that he’d said _something_ that had made Dorian blanche, turn away, and walk out of the estate without making another sound. The words themselves were lost, buried under two bottles of Antivan Brandy and the very last of the Caecuban.

So, too, was his dignity. He answered the door without bothering to disguise his hangover, fully intending to tell whoever was knocking to fuck off. When ‘whoever’ turned out to be Dorian, however, the impulse died, leaving him to squint dumbly into the late morning- or possibly early afternoon- sunshine.

“Might I come in?” he asked, adding when Fenris was still struggling to formulate a response some moments later. “I can come back later, if you prefer.”

Words weren’t his strong suit today. He stepped back to let Dorian in.

“Thank you,” Dorian said, inclining his head in Fenris’ direction as he crossed the threshold.

Fenris shut the door behind him.

“I’ve come to apologize,” Dorian told him. “And to collect my things. It’s abundantly obvious that overstepped my bounds, and I am sorry to have caused you distress. I’ve brought the deed to the estate with me.” He pulled the scroll from the inside pocket of his robes and balanced it on the newel post. “It only requires your signature, and then the place yours. Officially, I mean.”

Fenris stared, not entire convinced that this was not a bizarrely polite hallucination.

“You might want watch out for back taxes, though,” Dorian added after a moment. “It’s my understanding that the Seneschal is holding a small crusade in that part of the civil service.” It was clearly supposed to be a joke, he could tell that much, but he was still struggling to place everything else into context.

Dorian was apologizing. Dorian was giving him the deed to the estate. Dorian was getting his things…

Dorian was leaving?

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I have no desire to have any sort of power over you, let alone use it,” Dorian said. “And I’m going to prove that to you.”

He’d started walking up the stairs, when Fenris spoke. “That is not necessary.”

“I think it might be,” Dorian replied, and then continued on.

Fenris followed him upstairs to his room, and watched him sweep his belongings into the empty pack he’d brought with him. Dorian hadn’t really accumulated much in the way of possessions during his time in Kirkwall. He still used the staff that he’d had when Danarius was killed, and he had acquired some clothes and a bit of kohl for himself, but most of what he’d bought since becoming a free man again was food and wine- most of which has since been consumed. There were books in his bedroom from the library, which Dorian denuded of his notes, stacked on the nightable and then ignored, and a few potions Anders had supplied, which he tucked into his robes with the notes.

“Where are you going?” Fenris asked.

“I’ve gotten a room at a hotel: The Theoxenia. It’s a popular rest spot and seclude work place for scholars- supposedly Brother Genetivi frequents the place, though right now there seems to full of unsociable knobs. You’re welcome to visit me, if you like. I’m registered under the name Gideon Vyrantus.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Fenris said.

Then Dorian left.

Fenris walked into the kitchen, deed in hand, completely forgetting about the smashed chair and charred table until they were within his sight.

_What did we do to each other last night? What did we say?_

Because he asked his questions to a bottle of wine, he received no answers.

* * *

Hawke showed up in his kitchen a week after their return from Sundermount, loaded down with groceries that she was stuffing into his pantry.

“Keeper Marethari is dead,” she said, adding with a snort. “Long live Keeper Josmael.”

“And that has inspired you to do my shopping?” Fenris asked. “And then break into my house?”

“No, the fact that no one has seen you in week inspired me to do your shopping. You’re welcome,” Hawke said, closing the pantry door with more force than it really required. “Listen, I know you and Merrill have your differences…”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. It had been some time since Hawke had bothered trying to play peacekeeper.

“And if you really can’t set those aside for any length of time, maybe you should stay away for bit,” she finished. “At least until she’s feeling up to your barbs.”

It had been quite some time indeed, Fenris acknowledged with something like regret.

“It is not as though I don’t understand that she’s in pain,” he said. “But her Keeper is dead and her clan has cast her out. What more would it take for her to abandon her blood magic?”

“You know, Fenris, have you ever considered that sometimes terrible things happen and there’s no lesson to be learned from it, or any meaning at all beyond things being shit?”

“With that attitude is it any wonder terrible things continue to happen?” Fenris replied.

The look Hawke gave him was flat and unimpressed, and she turned to leave.

“Merrill is a blood mage,” Fenris called after her. “I know you dislike considering her as such, but that does not make it any less true.”

“Is there going to be a point to this besides ‘blood magic is bad and Merrill should feel bad for using it’ and if so can we skip straight to that?” Hawke asked.

“She has already fallen prey to temptation once. What is there to say that she will not do so again, at a much greater cost? Especially if she does not realize the folly of her actions in the first place.”

Hawke sighed. “Nothing, except for the trust I place in her.”

“I do not dispute that Merrill loves you,” Fenris said in an attempt to sooth. “Only a fool would-”

“I didn’t say love. I said trust,” Hawke corrected him. “We all have our weaknesses. Merrill wants to reclaim the past. You want to never be at the mercy of another magister. Anders wants for no one to be at the mercy of any Templar. Isabela wants her freedom. Varric wants to know where things went wrong with his family. Sebastian wants his life to be certain again. Aveline wants everyone to just calm down and stop being unrestful in her city. And I trust you all to at least try to avoid killing me if the opportunity for what you want arises.”

“You still trust that, after all that has come to pass?” Fenris asked.

He wasn’t speaking of just Merrill. He was barely speaking of Merrill at all now. He’d betrayed Hawke, to a demon no less, over an offer of power to rival any magister. He did not know what Aveline had been tempted with, only that she’d awakened shortly after he. Isabela had sailed away with the Tome of Koslun- though she had sailed back, at no small risk to herself. That was more of an apology than either Aveline or himself had been able to offer.

“Yes,” she said.

She turned to leave again, and once more, Fenris stopped her.

“What about you, Hawke?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“Oh, you know me,” she said glibly. “Some way to win against Isabela at Wicked Grace. Or maybe a Sandal-to-Mortal-Person translator.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “That was not your greatest attempt at levity,” he told her.

“Well, you can’t win them all, I suppose,” she said, grinning. It looked like the action pained her.

He’d been prepared to let the matter drop, but Hawke surprised him by continuing. “Actually, you know what I want? I want to keep all of you safe. I want for nothing to hurt you or any of the others ever again, and I want to hunt down everyone who has already done so and make them realize the error of their ways. I want to stop dreading the war that’s brewing, not because I think I can’t win it, but because I think all of my friends will turn on each other when it starts. And what I really, truly want is to stop losing people, because that sucks.”

For a moment they stood there, regarding each other.

“It _really fucking sucks_ ,” Hawke emphasized. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see if Isabela and Varric have managed to make Merrill stop crying yet.”

And with that she left, and Fenris let her go.

* * *

What was Dorian’s weakness?

He had claimed not to want power, and Fenris believed him. Dorian had changed since his escape, and not necessarily for the better: he no longer poked at his bruises but rather ignored them, he stopped fighting immediately if anyone grabbed him, when he did fight he fought with more precision and physical strength, and there was a patience and coldness in the way he had poisoned Danarius’ wine that he had not had when they were in Tevinter together. Yet in many respects he was the same as he had been when his parents’ slaves had deposited him in Danarius’ bed. He was clever and determined and not shy about telling you about it; he was compassionate and honorable and not very good at hiding it from close associates; and he was self-aware enough to know when he was out of his element, even if the knowledge did little to dissuade him from a course of action. If he wanted power, he would be discussing his plans to return to Tevinter and deal with whoever placed themselves in his way; instead he was in Kirkwall, apparently under the impression that he needed to prove his lack of desire for power to Fenris.

He did not, but the question remained: if it was not power that tempted him- the power to stop anyone of Danarius’ ilk from forcing him into their bed again, at least- then what would it be?

Revenge? With Danarius dead, who would there be to avenge himself on? His father? They hadn’t spoken of Dorian’s family, that last argument aside, but as of the fall of Seheron, Dorian hadn’t been able to so much as maintain his anger towards his father for any substantial length of time. He hadn’t even managed to not care, and he would guess that was the case still.

His father’s affection, perhaps? To undo everything that happened since Danarius found out about the blood magic ritual? To undo himself, even- remake himself into someone interested in women, or willing to pretend such, and thus negate the need for a blood magic ritual in the first place?

The thought was disquieting, because he understood the plausibility of that happening. When Dorian had first decided to become friends, he would often speak to him of his life before Danarius. Fenris had largely been confused, and a little annoyed, at what he perceived as attempts to distract him from his duties with conversation, and had tried to ignore him. Still, he remembered the words said and the tone used to say them clearly enough to know that there had been no small amount of self-loathing present when Dorian spoke of why his father had done this to him.

It would not have been something that Dorian would normally consider, he thought. His distaste for demons rivaled Fenris’ own, and he could well imagine the disdain with which he would regard the idea of dealing with one in order to do his father’s dirty work for him.

But, if the demon brought him low, if it were patient and waited until he was already inclined towards hating himself…

He didn’t know. They hadn’t spoken of it since well before his escape. There hadn’t been much of a need to, really, at least as far his preferences went. Outside the constraints of Tevinter society, people developed a sense of such things, and were able to tell without being told that Hawke and Sebastian only liked women, that Dorian and Aveline only liked men, that Anders, Merrill, Isabela, and himself went in either direction, and that Varric enjoyed the aesthetics of people without things necessarily delving into sexual attraction. Not only could they tell, but they regarded it with about as much judgment as they would pass upon someone with red hair rather than brown.

And Dorian’s father was a terrible person. There was no need to bring him up when there was no shortage of terrible people right here in Kirkwall to discuss, and to kill. He knew better than to drag up old torments such as that.

Normally, he knew better.

* * *

After much postponing and scheduling mishaps, Diamondback nights were officially reinstated. Fenris was informed of this fact when he heard movement on the ground floor and found Varric and Donnic seated in his sitting room.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Donnic said. “It almost looks like someone lives here.”

“You do realize that you have broken into my house,” Fenris checked, leaning his sword back against the wall.

“Technically, Varric is the one who picked your lock,” Donnic said.

Varric nodded. “If you’re really upset about it, you could always call the guard.”

Donnic smirked.

“Perhaps I shall tell Aveline,” Fenris remarked thoughtfully.

Donnic looked more than a little frightened of the prospect, but Varric merely snorted. “C’mon Broody, sit down and try to use those underhanded tactics to win.”

He had missed these nights. As much as he’d follow her anywhere, he’d missed speaking with his friends in a setting that wasn’t orchestrated by Hawke.

Donnic spoke of Aveline, mainly: he’d still been all aflutter from their honeymoon the previous Diamondback night, but now things had settled enough for them to discuss children, and whether or not to attempt having any. He seemed utterly enchanted with the idea (and after three glasses of wine and a little thought, Fenris could see the appeal of a gaggle of redheaded children, towering head and shoulders above their peers as they kept an eye out for any schoolyard bullies) if less than enthusiastic about the practicalities of juggling their duties to the city guard and raising a family.

Varric brought up a recent escapade of Hawke’s wherein Isabela’s old business partner had placed a bounty on her, with his usual flare for the dramatic. The story winded its way through brothels, most of Kirkwall’s streets, and ended in a final confrontation at the docks, Hawke choosing to kill the slaver, rather than blackmail him, as was only right. “So then Hawke turns to Rivaini and says ‘Remember that one time you ran off with a Qunari relic?’ and Rivaini just sighs and go ‘Are you going to hold that over me forever?’ and Hawke is still busy chuckling at her own joke, so Flashfire-”

“Wait, who is Flashfire?” Fenris asked. “Have you given Aveline a nickname?”

Varric paused, which was an answer in and of itself.

“So, Dorian then?” he checked. “Dare I ask what inspired that nickname?”

“Aveline was complaining about massive splash damage,” Donnic muttered.

“Let me put it this way: you know how he’s been having trouble with his fireballs?” Varric asked.

Fenris nodded.

“Well, he’s found a way to use that, and it is _terrifying_.”

“What’s terrifying?” Isabela asked as she plopped down next to him. She managed to get a look at his hand before he put his cards face down on the table. “Ooh, never mind, forget I asked.”

“Is everyone going to break into my house?” Fenris complained.

“I take offense to that,” Isabela protested. “The door was open!”

Fenris turned to Varric, who said “I kind of forgot that you’d fixed the place up until I realized that your concierge wasn’t there to greet me.”

Donnic frowned. “I thought we decided that Fred was a valet?”

Their card game was neglected for the rest of the night, as they tried to remember the names and jobs Hawke had assigned to the various corpses that had populated the mansion until recently. Then Varric and Donnic took their leave and there was very little need for words between himself and Isabela once they were alone.

* * *

Things fell into a pattern then. Fenris spent his days training in the courtyard, shopping, and reading, as he normally did when Hawke had little need for him. Training seemed… less engaging, now that Dorian wasn’t around to face off with him, and he avoided Hightown’s market in favor of the one in Lowtown, but those were the only changes. He considered taking Aveline up on her standing offer to train with the guard, and rediscovered that being an elf in Lowtown meant that people would actually speak to him about useful things, rather than only as much as necessary to get him to part with his coin.

At night, he had his regular Diamondback nights once more, barring anything that required the attention of Hawke and/or the guard. Isabela was a frequent visitor, and every so often Hawke would stop by to discuss the various happenings of her life and Kirkwall in general: for example, apparently the woman had a long-lost cousin named Charade. Or calling herself Charade. It wasn’t clear to Fenris which it was. It was equally unclear whether or not she was teaching Dorian to throw daggers or was merely inventing some sort of drinking game involving both daggers and Dorian, though he received very clear assurances that there was only a little bit of blood involved in the whole process. Hawke, Isabela, and Varric continued to pick the front door to let themselves in, and Fenris began to contemplate having keys made- or investing in a deadbolt.

He heard of Dorian, but not from him. Dorian had not returned to the mansion, and Fenris had not sought him out at the hotel; no letters were exchanged, no form of correspondence was passed between them. Varric would talk of the trouble Hawke dragged him into and how he fought his way out of it, Hawke would keep him informed of Dorian’s apparent health, and even Isabela would sometimes mention something entertaining Dorian had said over drinks, generally while she was searching the mansion for her clothing.

He avoided Wicked Grace nights. From the sound of things, so did Dorian.

There were some nights where he had no company, and even on those he did, he had to go to sleep sometime. And then he had constant companionship in the form of his nightmares.

Nightmares had not normally bothered him while Danarius still lived. He’d usually slept calmly, if lightly, and the act had never been a major source of bother to him before. Now that the man was dead, however, he couldn’t seem to so much as nap without being plagued by bad dreams.

Of course, since Danarius had died was the same amount of time it had been since Dorian had arrived, and he would be lying if he said that he hadn’t wondered if that wasn’t the cause- if having a mage under his roof hadn’t made his sleeping mind a target. But the dreams had not abated when Dorian left; if anything, they had grown more troublesome.

The first of his nightmares had been vague things, the sensation of running scared and exhausted without any sense of direction, or the feeling of being tied down and lowered into water, or the impression of hands moving over his body while he lay there, paralyzed with fear.

Then there had been that night, when he had dreamed of being Danarius: an alarmingly specific nightmare, especially considering the conversation he’d had with Dorian the previous day. About the only comfort he had was that once he’d calmed down enough to think of it, he realized that he hadn’t dreamed of a specific incident. It had been a mix, of punishments Dorian earned after his escape attempts, of that first fortnight where Danarius had thought that he could break Dorian completely within a day or two if he only pushed a little harder, of Danarius’ fits and moods that Dorian had borne the brunt of even after he stopped trying to leave. Danarius had had a habit of narrating, addressing Fenris as he did so, which must have been the source of the thoughts he’d had while dreaming. It wasn’t the same thing that was plaguing Dorian, or worse, a different side of the same coin. He wasn’t actually hurting Dorian.

But though he did not dream of being Danarius again, that nightmare seemed to open a floodgate, and he dreamed of the man often. His voice was a near-constant presence in his dreams now, dictating his actions- again, they were never specific memories, but rather a sickening litany of the kind of filth he used to say: _That’s it my little wolf, open him up for me, no need to be so gentle, we want him to break, don’t we?_

That was another thing they’d not discussed: what Danarius had so often made Fenris do to Dorian, and what he’d occasionally had Dorian do to Fenris. They had barely spoken of it when it was a regular occurrence, other than to offer apologies and forgiveness for actions that weren’t of their own choice.

How did you even begin to discuss something like that? What was there that could be said, and what would the point of such a conversation be? Even thinking of it, let alone dreaming of it, made Fenris want to take a very long, very hot shower.

Thankfully, for the state of the enchantments on his plumbing if nothing else, that was becoming less of concern. With Dorian’s departure from the mansion, his dreams had begun to change again. Though Danarius’ voice still ran through many of them, and every so often he would have one of those vague terror-filled nightmares, more and more often it would merely be the two of them alone in an almost peaceful setting. They were always in Tevinter, it always began with Dorian persuading him to relax for a moment, and eventually the light would catch against Dorian’s eyelashes, or Fenris would say something that made Dorian smile, equal parts delighted and surprised, and he would lean forwards and-

It was never clear whether Fenris was dreaming of Dorian kissing back, or of Dorian merely acquiescing, too afraid and unsure of what he was doing to risk trying to fight him off. That was always the moment when he woke up.

* * *

“Please don’t be naked!” Hawke called out one evening as she broke into his house. _Again._

“I’m taking a bath,” Fenris replied.

“But are you naked?”

“No Hawke, I’m in full plate armor.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“All part of the new dance routine I am choreographing,” Fenris informed her. “I am considering calling it the _Why Do I Bother Locking My Door Waltz_.”

“Catchy.”

He could hear Hawke’s boots on the stairs, moving down the hall, and then coming to a stop outside the bathroom door. Presumably Hawke herself was wearing them.

“I take it all is not well?” he asked.

“Oh, everything’s peachy keen,” Hawke snarled at him through the door.

Fenris considered that for a moment, before standing.

“No, no, I’m about to go on a rant, you feel free to finish bathing,” she said.

“Very well,” Fenris said, unplugging the basin and reaching for the towel. Unfortunately, it seemed as though his towels were all dirty and in another room besides.

“It’s like this: I had Dorian over for dinner, and Dorian brought Anders and Isabela, and somehow- I don’t know how- they got on the subject of solitary confinement. Which didn’t seem like good dinner table talk to begin with, and then suddenly Anders is arguing that no, really, he wasn’t raped in solitary, the fact that he was beyond desperate for any kind of contact with any kind of person? And every Templar who visited his cell knew it? And almost certainly didn’t have his best interests at heart? That’s neither here nor there. It wasn’t rape, he asked for it, he _seduced_ them, his status as a morally corrupting influence was made a part of his file and everything.”

Fenris decided to sod the towel. “Why would you tell me that?” he demanded, flinging the door open.

“Andraste’s flaming tits!” Hawke shrieked, turning her face up at the ceiling and putting her hand between himself and her peripheral vision. “I didn’t need to see _that_!”

“ _Hawke_.”

“The point is that I need to see Knight-Captain Cullen tonight. Knight-Captain Cullen, who was at Kinloch Hold. Knight-Captain Cullen, who doesn’t want to see Ser Rapey Creep-Ass’ career destroyed because Alain is morally corrupting him.”

“What.”

“Knight-Captain Cullen, who is meeting with me tonight because he wants my help in saving Aveline’s career, and therefore cannot be murdered for more reasons than usual,” Hawke concluded. “So, please, please, come with me, and if it looks like I’m going to stab him in the face, stop me. And for the love of the Maker’s hairy ballsack, put some clothes on!”

Fenris nodded, and then realized Hawke probably couldn’t see. “I will go change,” he said, and walked back into his room.

It had never sat well with him, what was happening to Alain. It didn’t sit well with anyone- how could it? Alain had done exactly as he should- he’d run from the blood mage, he’d surrendered himself to the Templars and asked to be brought back to the Circle. At a time when so many mages- so many of the mages he’d been traveling with in particular- had made a break for the underground, the act was all the more commendable.

And his reward had been the attentions of Karras.

Even if Alain had not acted so commendably, he would be hard pressed to find a crime where _rape_ was a fitting punishment- let alone six years of ongoing abuse. If Alain had been a blood mage, they would have killed him like they had killed Decimus and so many others since, and made a clean end of it. There wouldn’t be this… torment, with no end in sight.

He dressed, grabbed the sword he kept by his bedside, and rejoined Hawke out in the hall.

“I have a question which I already regret contemplating,” Fenris told her.

“How come I’m so sure the Maker’s ballsack is hairy when I’m so unsure about the Maker and generally disinterested in ballsacks?” Hawke quipped.

“…no.”

“It’s a serious question then? Because I’m not sure how much more serious I can-”

“Do you believe Cullen to have been one of the Templars to take advantage of the mage during his time in solitary?” Fenris asked.

“…Andraste’s flaming tits,” Hawke swore again. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.”

“As I said, I have already come to regret contemplating it,” Fenris said.

Hawke leaned heavily against the wall, frowning down at the floor.

“Probably not,” she said finally, looking back up at him. “I don’t get the impression that Cullen’s into men-”

Fenris snorted, because that was much less of a factor in such things than it first appeared, and well they both knew it.

“-and I _do_ get the impression that if Cullen and Anders had any kind of sexual history, Anders would have brought it up before now, especially considering that he thinks of himself a the aggressor in what happened to him in solitary,” Hawke finished. “But I don’t know for sure. I’m not even sure knowing would help- I’m trying _not_ to murder the guy, remember?”

“Yes, I do,” Fenris said.

They walked out towards his front door. They made it to the stairs before Fenris thought to ask “I take it he’s not joining us tonight?”

“I’m bringing Sebastian along,” Hawke said. “I left Dorian and Anders back at my place- last I heard of them they were telling a lot of _really_ uncomfortable jokes involving hallucinations and beard burn. I think maybe they were competing to see who could make Isabela flinch? Hopefully, that doesn’t traumatize Orana or anything. I’m really not in a good place for dealing with trauma. I’m in a good place for stabbing.”

“We’re trying not to murder anyone,” Fenris reminded her.

“We’re trying not to murder Knight-Captain Cullen, or, for tonight at least, Templars in general,” Hawke corrected him. “I’m sure I can find _someone_ to stab.”

Fenris paused, his hand on the doorknob. That was not a very Hawke-like thing to say- not when they weren’t already elbow deep in blood mages, Qunari, gangs, slavers, or whatever other enemies there were to be had, at least.

“Why is it all my friends have had such shitty lives?”Hawke asked, taking his pause as an invitation to speak further. “Your families are shitty or dead or both, there are shitty demons, shitty expectations from your family or culture, and/or you’ve spent way too much time at the mercy of shitty assholes who wouldn’t know mercy if it came down from the heavens, sword in hand. Why is that? What is there out there that goes ‘oh, Hawke’s going to like you later, I better pour on the shit’ and is it the sort of being I can lodge a complaint against? Why is this all of you?”

“Well, you are friends with, Aveline,” Fenris reminded her.

“Aveline lost her husband and her home in the Blight,” Hawke said, pausing mid dismissive wave to consider her words. “Which is pretty much baseline-Fereldan nowadays, come to think of it. And she has remarried and now has a steady job. Okay. How did Aveline end up in my circle of friends again?”

“She was the first member of your circle of friends, as I understand it,”

“Right,” Hawke drawled. “So Aveline is a statistical outlier and should not be counted. Why all the rest of you?”

“I have been told that sometimes terrible things happen and there’s no meaning in it,” Fenris replied.

Hawke pulled a face.

“If I were to hazard a guess, however, I would say that with all that has come to pass, anyone who had not already been tested and proven would have fallen by the wayside a long time ago rather than being to keep your pace.”

“So basically, your life had to be at least a little hellish to deal with being in mine, or you have to be Aveline,” Hawke said.

“Yes.”

“You know, I like your explanation better. Less divine interference, more dumb luck and victories in the face of impossible odds,” she smiled. “Shall we help protect the one sane member of our group?”

* * *

It was two nights after that when Dorian showed up on his doorstep, stupendously drunk and nearly in tears. Fenris was regrettably sober, having neglected his drink in favor of the newest book in the _Tyrcelle of Denerim_ series. He’d abandoned both his drink and the book in the library to answer the door, as for some reason he thought Hawke might be knocking, as opposed to breaking in.

“You told them?” Dorian asked.

“I-” Fenris said. He’d not been prepared to have any kind of conversation with Dorian, let alone one that began with the man drunkenly weaving outside with a storm front rolling in, looking like Fenris had hit him and he just needed to know _why_. And yet here the man was, and there was the storm, right behind him. “Told who what?”

“You told _them_ ,” Dorian said, waving vaguely in the direction of Hawke’s estate. “About my father?”

“They know your father is a magister because you’ve said as much yourself,” Fenris reminded him.

“Not- I mean,” Dorian leaned forward a bit, clutching at the door frame for support. “The blood magic ritual. That he’d been planning to do. On me. To fix me.”

“I-” It was on the tip of Fenris’ tongue to deny it, and then he remembered, over three years past, when Hawke’s mother had still be alive, and she’d been railing against her expectations that Hawke would marry a nobleman. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Dorian mocked.

“It was three years ago, I did not speak of it to everyone, and I did not mention your name,” Fenris explained.

“But they _know_ ,” Dorian pressed, and for one terrifying moment Fenris was sure he’d really started crying. Then there was a flash of lightning and he realized that the storm had reached Hightown. “No one was supposed to know. That was the _point_ of it all.”

The point of-? It took Fenris a moment to realize what Dorian was referring to, time enough for the first rumble of thunder to come through.

“That was not the point,” Fenris snapped.

“Oh? Then what, pray tell, was the point?” Dorian retorted.

“The point was that your father was a hypocrite and coward who offered you up to Danarius rather than account for his own misdeeds, and that your mother, at best, did nothing to stop him. What your parents did and why they did it is no more your shame than it is my shame that Varania was willing to sell me out. That is the way of-”

 _Mages. That is the way of mages, they always find a way to justify their need for power, an end to justify their means._ That is what he would have said to very nearly anyone else. But not to Dorian- to Dorian, he sighed, and said “Come inside.”

“I don’t want to fight, Fenris,” Dorian said.

“I have no intention of fighting you.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” Dorian insisted.

“What?” Fenris asked. There was another flash of lightning, followed more swiftly by thunder. “Come inside before you get soaked.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” Dorian repeated, stepping inside.

“I am not afraid of you, Dorian.” The inanity of the statement was underscored by the way Dorian was fumbling with his cloak fastenings, unable to undo them in his inebriated state.

“Sush- Shush- shupish- _wary_ , then,” Dorian said, finally giving up on the cloak fastenings and lifting the thing up over his head. Or attempting to do so, at any rate. He mostly succeeded in get hopelessly entangled.

“Shut up,” Dorian snapped from inside his cloth prison, dragging out the ‘sh’ until it sounded like a rebuke all on its own.

“I have not said anything,” Fenris replied, adding after a beat. “Neither has your cloak.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t hear the mockery!”

Fenris smirked as Dorian finally emerged victorious from his cloak, his hair hopeless mussed by the rain and the exertion. Dorian stuck out his tongue and then tottered over to the coat hooks, where he didn’t hang up his cloak so much as lean into the wall with it.

“You’re wary of me,” Dorian said. “And I don’t want you to be. But I can’t blame you either.”

Well, at least this provided him with a clearer idea of what he’d said to Dorian when they returned to Kirkwall. “Why is that?”

“Because I remain, by some measures at least, an Altus. I’m the heir to not one but two Alti Houses- with Danarius dead, I could probably claim his place in the Magisterium with relatively little fanfare. Even with how widespread the knowledge of how Danarius made use of me is, I could do it- with less fanfare than I could House Pavus, certainly. If I was really determined, I could sweep everything under the rug and return to Minrathous, buy three dozen people and settle down into demon shum- shu- blood magic skarcr- shacr- _things_ with very little problem. I don’t want to- I don’t want any of it. But it’s there. I understand why you’re sketish- shkeptush- _wary_.”

The look he sent Fenris was so forlorn that for a moment he wondered how feasible it would be to run over to Hawke’s estate and ask her to hug the man for him. Not very feasible, he determined. Instead, he took the cloak from Dorian, hung it up on the hook, and jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen.

Dorian followed him, only stumbling twice, and sitting down at the table where Fenris pointed. Fenris poured him a glass of water, and after a moment’s thought put the tea kettle on to boil. He couldn’t allow Dorian to attempt to walk anywhere- not in this weather, and not in the state he was currently in. He might be able to sober him up a little, though.

“Is there some way of fixing this?” Dorian asked, ignoring the water for the moment. “Hawke told me you got along well with her shish- with Bethany. She’s a mage. Is there anything I can do?”

“It is not that simple,” Fenris said. “I respect Bethany, but there’s no single incident I can point to that caused it, and no amount of respect that changed the differences in our persons, just as my friendship with you does not change who we are.”

“Is there any way to-”

“Not without giving up your magic, no,” Fenris said. “Would you give up your magic, if you could?”

“No,” Dorian said bluntly. “I absolutely would not. Would you give up your…”

Given the way his arguments with Anders went, Fenris would have expected Dorian to finish that sentence with the word ‘sword’, or whatever drunken approximation thereof he could manage. Instead, he made a whooshing sound and mimed the action of ripping a man’s heart from his chest.

In another context, that probably would have been funny.

“That is not the same,” Fenris snapped. “These markings are unnatural. They were forced upon me, they took everything from me, and they have caused and continue to cause me a great deal of pain. Which part of that sounds like being a mage?”

“None of it,” Dorian replied, holding his hands up. “I only meant- it’s a form of protection, what you can do with those brands. Anyone trying to hurt you or compel you to do anything would have more of a problem then they would if it was just you and your greatsword; and I’d have better luck if I were able to light their pants on fire, rather than relying upon my sparkling wits and boyish good looks alone.”

The kettle was whistling. Fenris got back up to deal with it.

“I don’t want to fight,” Dorian said again. “I did _not_ come here to fight, Fenris.”

“What did you come here for?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Fenris grudgingly fixed his tea: the sooner Dorian was sobered up, the sooner Fenris could send him away without feeling guilty.

Fenris put the tea down in front of Dorian with enough force to rattle it, and send some tea spilling over the side of the mug. Dorian looked between it and his still untouched water, and barked out a laugh that sounded like it hurt.

“Well, at least this is unlikely to make me ill,” he quipped, and Fenris suppressed the urge to wince as he started to drink his water.

One of the duties he’d assumed after the marriage was plying Dorian with wine (and other forms of alcohol) on Danarius’ behalf during social functions. Dorian had once complained that he thought Danarius was trying to ruin alcohol for him, and he had to admit that might have been a selling point for that tactic: mainly, though, he had simply wanted Dorian to be too uncoordinated and dizzy to attempt to fight him where there were other people around who might be inclined to come to his aid. Dorian had already been well acquainted with the idea of drowning his sorrows, and the first two or three glasses had always disappeared quickly, even gratefully. The next few were general downed without complaint, if also without enthusiasm, and eventually Dorian would begin to protest: quips, jokes, and sarcasm devolving steadily into pleading: _Please, I promise I’m not going to fight, please, I’m afraid I might get sick, please, surely he doesn’t **want** me to vomit on him?_

At some point, Fenris had begun agreeing with him- _Do you give me your word? We will both be in trouble if you fight._ \- and then Dorian had stopped begging to stop, and started asking for Fenris opinion as to whether or not he was drunk enough to do so without Danarius catching on. However, before they’d reached that point- before he’d reached a point where he could even consider conspiring against Danarius’ wishes- there had been some force involved.

He’d nearly broken Dorian’s wrist once, when Dorian had insisted that having three shots of brandy on top of eleven glasses of wine in a mere four hours was too much. Dorian had downed the shots once Fenris let him go, and then had another glass of wine on top of that- it would have been two, but he’d thrown the second glass back in Fenris’ face, which had caused an end to House Danarius’ participation in the festivities for the night. Later, once they had retreated to their guest suit and Danarius had finished with him, Dorian had rolled to the edge of the bed and spewed it all back up all over the floor.

Danarius was a lot more cautious about mixing Dorian’s drinks after that. And Dorian had, somehow, been able to overlook Fenris’ part in that in order to forge a friendship with him.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

“Do what? Magic?” Dorian asked, taking a sip from his tea. Already, he looked healthier. “Well, in most ways, I am the very model of success for the Tevinter Altus' Archon breeding program. I’m practically perfect, if you overlook the fact that I’m an invert with a profound disgust for the Magisterium and almost everything it stands for.”

“How did you stop being afraid of me?” Fenris clarified. “You must have been wary of me, at least, in the beginning.”

“Oh, I was terrified,” Dorian told him. “You utterly terrified me for _months_.”

“But you still reached out,” Fenris said. “This isn’t- we didn’t become friends because of anything I did.”

“Yes, we did,” Dorian said swiftly. “I might have made the first move, but if you hadn’t reciprocated we wouldn’t be here.”

“But the first move was yours,” Fenris rejoined. “You decided to make it, though you’d been terrified of me- though you were likely terrified of me still.”

Dorian grimaced, and took a gulp out of his tea. “You know when I came to that decision.”

“The decimation.”

“Yes.” Dorian finished his tea, looking forlornly at his empty cup until Fenris took it from him to refill.

“Thanks,” he said once Fenris had returned, though he left the tea sitting where Fenris had left it. “You know, before that day, I’d never seen anyone killed? Let alone _seventeen_ people, let alone so close, and with so much blood and screaming.”

Fenris nodded. He had a vague recollection of being annoyed by Dorian’s reactions at the time, mostly to distract himself from the dread of his own upcoming punishment. The mage had been eighteen at the time- surely he’d seen and participated in blood sacrifices even gristlier than the scene in the courtyard a dozen times over by that age? Later, when Dorian had talked at him about his life before Danarius for long enough, it registered that not only had Dorian likely never seen or participated in blood magic rituals involving any kind of unwilling sacrifice before, but he still believed that the types of rituals Danarius conducted were abnormal, rather than the usual state of affairs for magisters everywhere.

“Once I’d managed to wrap my head around what had happened, I remember thinking ‘That’s it, he’s won.’ I couldn’t escape if he was going to kill people because of me, especially not at that age- you know what I was like then. I couldn’t really process killing anything. I couldn’t even kill _Viator_ , and he was every inch a rabid dog, perfectly willing to take a bite out of you whether his master was around to order it or not.” That he’d once thought of Fenris in similar terms did not need to be said. “How could I cause the deaths of people whose only crime was having the misfortune of being in Danarius’ vicinity?”

“And somehow that made you decide to stop being afraid of me and start being my friend?” Fenris asked.

“It made me think,” Dorian said. “I’d- it’d honestly never occurred to me that being a slave meant doing things against your will before I found myself in that position. I’d figured that my family’s slaves were basically employees being paid in room and board rather than coin, and Danarius’ slaves… I saw you as little more than golems or thralls, just acting as an extension of his will without any thoughts of your own, for much longer than I should have.”

“That’s how he viewed us as well.”

Dorian winced. “I’m well aware of what a little shit I was as a teenager,” he began.

“That’s not how I meant it,” Fenris cut him off. “I only meant that your parents liked to see themselves as benevolent rulers, and their household acted to support that view. Danarius saw himself as all-powerful, as someone who completely owned hundreds of people spread across four different estates, each completely broken to his will. And we acted in accordance with that view.”

“I was afraid it wasn’t an act,” Dorian confessed. “Or that it wasn’t going to be an act for me. You know what he was like, you know how close he kept me, and there was no end in sight…”

“Danarius was nearly forty years older than you,” Fenris pointed out.

“And with all that he knew about blood magic and all he was willing to do with that knowledge, he could have easily prolonged his life until I would have died of old age twice over. Assuming he would have let me die of old age. I have no doubt I’ll be just as handsome in my dotage as I am now, but I’ll probably be lacking the same boyish charm. Danarius was no Abraxis, but he did like taking pretty young things to bed. Once I no longer qualified…” Dorian shook his head, swatting the air around his face. “Anyway, I needed- I needed there to be something else, someone else. I couldn’t just have Danarius, his various little myrmidons, and a few social functions where I’d have to play happy husband as my only way of being with people. I needed a _friend_.”

“And you chose me.”

“Yes.”

“Because as Danarius’ bodyguard I was close at hand,” Fenris guessed.

“Well that certainly made it easier.”

“I have been called a great many things over the years. ‘Easy to befriend’ is not one of them,” Fenris pointed out.

Dorian smiled briefly. “That’s a perfect example of what did it, actually. Because I didn’t just reach out to _you_ \- even after the decimation, Danarius owned over one hundred and fifty people in the Minrathous estate alone. I still have other friends that Danarius owned, I think. But, one day, I was nattering on, you said… something. I don’t know what- I don’t even know what I was talking about. But whatever you said was funny and sharp, and I just- you have to understand, you were so-” He waved his hand in front of Fenris’ face. “Unmovable. Nothing that happened, not anything Danarius did to you or anyone else, _nothing_ seemed to stick. And then you _reacted_ , and I thought ‘There’s someone in there that’s managed to survive being at Danarius’ side all these years, someone completely independent from him.’ And I wanted to meet you very badly. So I spent the next several months annoying my way into your affections, and I can’t really complain about the results. You’re very much worth knowing.”

Dorian looked so very fond at the moment that Fenris was taken aback. It took him some time to remember that Dorian hadn’t actually answered his question, at which point the man had almost finished his tea again.

“But how did you stop being afraid?”

“I’m not sure I stopped being afraid, exactly,” Dorian said. “I think I just pushed the fear of what you might do to me onto the fear of what Danarius would _make_ you do to me. You didn’t have any more choice about what his orders were going to be than I did. At first I just trusted that you weren’t going to do anything he didn’t order you to do, and then, as we started becoming friends, I trusted that you wouldn’t _want_ to hurt me, and by the time we got to the point where apologies felt necessary… well. Danarius was one void of a shipwreck to share, wasn’t he?”

Fenris nodded in agreement, but he still had to know. “That was it? You just decided to stop being afraid of me, and that worked?”

“I decided to trust that you wouldn’t hurt me of your volition, and you never broke that trust,” Dorian said. “ _That_ worked.”

They fell silent. Fenris contemplated; Dorian finished his tea, and got up to fix himself another cup on much steadier legs than he’d sat down on.

“I am uncertain as to whether I can do that,” Fenris said at last.

Dorian looked slightly hurt by that, but unsurprised. “Our situations aren’t the same, as you yourself pointed out. I didn’t have the sort of upbringing that taught me to be wary of mundane elven slaves, after all.”

“Not even ones with my abilities?” Fenris asked.

“Oddly enough my upbringing was silent on the matter,” Dorian quipped. “It-”He then repeated his earlier gesture, with slightly more whooshing. “-wasn’t really something people were aware was possible, let alone was a threat. I imagine you were raised to beware of human Altus mages, though.”

Fenris shrugged. “As do I.”

“You really don’t remember?” Dorian asked. “Nothing before Danarius, even after all this time?”

Fenris remembered playing with his sister, remembered his mother’s hands moving, remembered the courtyard where their owner allowed the slave children free range…

“Almost nothing,” Fenris told him.

* * *

Dorian stayed the night, mostly- Fenris woke up some time before dawn to the sounds of the front door clicking shut, and when he took a walk around the mansion to ensure that no one had broken in, he found that Dorian was missing, his bedclothes newly crumpled into new wrinkles.

He also found that when he’d abandoned his book last night, he’d left his wine open in the library, and it had gone flat.

Thankfully, Hawke was around to cheer him up.

“Fenris! I am formally inviting you to help us kill slavers on the Wounded Coast!” she announced as she broke in, which was more than enough invitation to forgive her for any number of sins, including inviting Anders along on said slaver-killing expedition.

“Mage,” grunted Fenris.

“Elf,” replied Anders with a sneer.

“Hawke,” Varric called out.

“Slavers,” Hawke reminded them. “Specifically, slavers who have assumed the mantle of the mage underground, who now are holding the families of several mages who felt that Meredith might move against them and then jumped at the chance to leave Kirkwall right into their waiting arms.”

“Move against… their families?” Fenris asked.

“Yes. That was Meredith’s favorite tactic for breaking the underground, and what’s left of it- she doesn’t just arrest apostates, but their families," Anders explained. "For aiding and abetting malificarum- you can be executed for that. Not that very many were allowed that level of closure- most simply disappeared.”

“And you’re certain that the Templars are to blame, rather than this slaving operation?” Fenris asked.

“Yes,” Anders said- or rather, his demon said. There was no glowing, but the change in his voice was unmistakable.

“I am having difficulty imagining the sort of apostates that are currently running roughshod over Kirkwall having families,” Fenris said.

“Oh, these aren’t the families of apostates: they’re the families of mages already in the Gallows. The apostates from Starkhaven did manage to stay free for three years: some of them put down roots. Others had managed to stay free for even longer, and only stayed in Kirkwall to help others escape, so by the time the Templars caught up with them they were married with children. And even though they now live under her thumb, Meredith fears them conspiring from within, so she’s been sending her Templars to harass their families, to help keep the mages in line.”

“Which made the families desperate enough to believe that the underground had reformed enough to get them out of the city,” Varric finished for him.

“So, these are people who have been enslaved because Templars are assholes, and they’re due to be sent to Tevinter, where they’ll be at the mercy of magisters who are also assholes,” Hawke summarized. “I think we can all agree that we should fuck that shit up.”

“Yes Hawke, I think we can,” Varric said. It sounded more like an order.

Anders nodded begrudgingly.

“Yes,” Fenris conceded.

“Good,” Hawke said. “Let’s go.”

The slavers might have been unusual in their targets and tactics, but they were less so in terms of how easily they died. There were no blood mages- no mages of any kind, save for perhaps the small group of children between the ages of eight and thirteen that had been separated out from the others- and as far as mercenaries went they were not even particularly well trained.

That did not make them less satisfying to kill; it merely made the battle end much more quickly than he would have liked, leaving him thrumming with energy and with nothing to expend it on.

He paced in front of the cavern’s entrance while the rest of the group decided what to do with the families. He did not particularly feel like participating: the amount of magic present was making his brands throb dully, the pain flaring every time Anders and his demon healed one of the newly-freed people, and he would honestly prefer to still be fighting right now, especially in the face of all he’d learned recently.

Hawke was normally scrupulous about keeping him from the workings of the mage underground. He had a vague idea that it had existed and that it had done any number of things he would not have liked, and that Meredith had destroyed it. No one had shared with him any of the details of the how, and he’d preferred it that way, right up until it started being impossible to ignore.

“So it’s decided then,” Hawke said. “You’ll meet Isabela there, she’ll take you to Fereldan, and with King Alistair’s sympathies, you should be okay as you can be while also being homeless.”

“Anywhere but here,” said one of the men, and there was a general mutter of agreement.

“Isabela is not going to appreciate being volunteered to do anything,” Fenris called out

“Isabela is going to be paid.”

Fenris grunted. Hawke had a point there, and Isabela had been looking to shake down her new ship, and break in her new crew…

He resolved to ignore his suspicions about the children that had been separated out, in much the same way he was trying to not recall the way Hawke had spit out the words ‘morally corrupting influence’ every time he looked at Anders: determinedly, but without much success.

“Aveline’s got guards on Dorian,” Anders told him as they made their way back down the Wounded Coast.

“She’s… what?”

“Just in case the Templars decide that he’s the most vulnerable mage in our group and decide to go after him,” Anders said. “And after all, without your stabilizing influence to keep him in check, who knows what he might get up to?”

Fenris grunted. For one moment he managed to forget Hawke’s words, because he remembered the way Dorian had acted after a week in solitary confinement, pale and trembling, far too quiet and obedient for weeks afterwards. Solitary confinement on Danarius’ terms had been absolute: food and water were delivered via dumbwaiter, there were no books, no windows, and the door melted into the wall until he was satisfied that his point had been made. Consequently, Fenris hadn’t believed Anders when he claimed to have spent a year in solitary, because a year of _that_ would have driven him mad long before his demon could do so. Now, knowing that his solitary confinement had been less than solitary… he could, grudgingly, concede that it was a possibility, and a cruel one at that.

That was not nearly enough to keep him being baited into an argument with Anders when the mage continued with “You know, he came down to visit me not too long ago, and asked if I knew whether or not you had some kind of problem with mages?”

There was a loud thumping noise as Hawke banged her head against the nearby cliff face, followed by the sound of muffled cursing.

“I assume you were all too happy to enlighten him?” Fenris asked.

“Actually, no, I wasn’t,” Anders retorted. “It was like kicking a kitten! The man had _actually thought_ you were better than that!”

Fenris glowered: out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Varric ushering Hawke ahead, probably in the middle of convincing her that it was better that they have this conversation now, outside of the city limits.

“And then he _defended_ you!” Anders continued, as though that were a personal affront to himself, rather than a tool he could use to win this argument. “He said that it _made sense_ , considering how things worked in Tevinter.”

Fenris refused to fall for it. “And I suppose it would be too much to hope that you would accept the sentiment coming from a mage rather than a mundane?”

“You think I’ve never heard a mage defend the Circle before- even one run like the Gallows?”

“From all your talk of solidarity and the need for all mages to be freed, that would be a surprise.”

“I know what self hate looks like.”

“And it would clearly be an act of self hate to see that the power mages has corrupts them.”

“It’s an act of self hate when someone who was enslaved decides it’s okay to be treated like he’s as guilty as a slave owner.”

“That is not what-” Why did he bother? “You cannot possibly understand-”

“Can’t possibly understand _what_?” Anders demanded. “What it’s like to know that any time one of your jailors has a problem they’ll find a way to take it out on you- to make you feel guilty for it, even? To watch friends disappear from the common room at night, only to never be seen again, or to only be seen after they’ve been made Tranquil? To come across a friend whose hurting, and not be able to ask for help, because if a mage is weak, they’re a threat to be neutralized?

“That is not what it was like!”

“From what Dorian’s told me, it’s pretty similar!”

“Dorian wasn’t enslaved because he was a mage!”

“But it didn’t protect him, did it?”

“Neither did being nobility!”

“Isn’t being a mage and being nobility linked in Tevinter?”

“Yes! And both are sources of power!”

“And neither one did him any favors!”

“He is one example out of an entire nation run by people who have received those favors and been corrupted by them!”

“But you _can_ recognize that he’s outside of it?”

“Of course I can! You are the one who insists upon painting everyone opposed to your fantasy of benevolent free mages with the same brush!”

“No, Fenris, I insist upon painting _you_ with the same brush! Do you want to know why?”

“If I say no will you shut up?”

“Because you have the same reasoning. Everything the Templars do, they do because they believe that having the ability to do terrible things makes it inevitable that they will do terrible things- because that is exactly what they do. And you know that if you had that kind of power, you would be just as bad as-”

Hawke chose that moment to save Anders from potentially making a comparison which would have ended with his heart being crushed in Fenris’ hand by summoning an Arcane Horror.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure your yelling woke the thing up,” Hawke argued once the fight was over and they were making their way back into the city limits.

“No, I think that was you, Hawke,” Anders said.

“Why would I summon an Arcane Horror?” Hawke demanded, sticking out her tongue.

“Why _wouldn’t_ you summon an Arcane Horror?” Varric asked, and if Fenris had been paying enough attention to the discussion to comment, he would have agreed.

As it was, he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to pay much attention to his surroundings beyond a general assessment of potential threats. That Anders would have compared him to Danarius- or even to magisters in general- was beyond infuriating, though hardly unusual. That he might have compared him to Karras and his ilk was less infuriating, he had to admit, but still infuriating- and that fury was new. Anders likely would not have even brought up Karras, but rather simply lumped Fenris in with Templars in general, but the name would have been implied, along with all the moral corruption it entailed.

And he did not want to be counted among the Templars.

It was not as though he suddenly supported the mages, let alone Anders’ ridiculous, dangerous dream of them. If the choice was blood mages and magisters or Templars, he would choose the Templars every time.

He did not like what was happening to Alain. He did not like how the Knight-Captain was allowing it to continue. He did not like the Knight-Commander even, though he still felt like she was performing a necessary function, and that there were a dearth of suitable replacements.

Those opinions were not new to him, necessarily: even his current opinion of Knight-Captain Cullen was a long time in forming. But the new knowledge of Anders’ experiences, and the sympathy it provoked- unwanted though it might be by both of them…

And there was Dorian, of course: the idea of Dorian being at the mercy of the Templars in Kirkwall, let alone while being trapped in the Gallows, was a most unpleasant one. Dorian had been an exception to his distrust of mages since his attempts to befriend Fenris had reaped some measure of success. And even before that…

Danarius had used both of them to intimidate the other magisters. The threat of Fenris had to do with his abilities: his strength, his discipline, the way he could rip the still-beating heart out of any of their bodyguards quicker than they could blink. The threat of Dorian had more to do with how far-reaching Danarius’ own powers were, because if he could use the only son and heir of a well-established Altus family as a common body slave, what might he do to them, or their children? It was not the sort of thing that made Dorian himself very threatening.

It was not as though he had trusted him, then, but he was not threatened by him either. He’d never really felt threatened by Dorian. So why had he apparently told Dorian that he was afraid of him?

* * *

Isabela took out the _Siren’s Call II_ with the refugees seeking to leave Kirkwall at the very end of Solace, and did not return until August was halfway done. Consequently, she missed All Soul’s Day.

Not that she would have gone to Chantry on All Soul’s Day, or any day when she didn’t have a date with a prostitute pretending to be a sister. Hawke was also not a fan of the Chantry, and would be having her own private memorial for her parents and brother right about now. Merrill would be with her; perhaps she would have a memorial of her own for the Keeper, though he supposed that the Dalish had their own ways to remember the dead. Anders was not attendance either, though whatever reasoning there might be for that, Fenris neither knew nor cared. Sebastian was there, standing alongside the lay brothers as they helped lead the Chant, as was Varric, who had ceased his usual commentary in deference to the day.

So was Dorian.

Fenris could see him out of the corner of his eye, a beat behind everyone else, the rhythm of the call and response in this Chantry’s services as unfamiliar to him now as they had once been to Fenris. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised: Dorian was a believer, and more than critical enough of the Imperial Chantry that praying in one under the White Divine’s jurisprudence wouldn’t offend. It wasn’t as though he had nothing to mourn.

Still, Fenris had not expected to see him there, and the sight of Dorian fumbling his way through the alien rites of All Soul’s Day in Kirkwall brought a wave of something that was not far from nostalgia.

In Tevinter, they had normally begun preparations to move from the Minrathous estate to the Seheron estate via the Pavus estate in Qarinus at about this time. The anniversary was on the kalends of Parvulis, and they generally visited with Dorian’s parents during that occasion, before moving on to Seheron for the start of the autumn season. A less bitter occasion was Dorian’s nameday, which was only five days from now: he had often joked that it was a sign from the Maker, that someone with his talent in necromancy had been named so close to Funalis.

He should probably inform Hawke of that. She would want to have another party for him.

Perhaps because it was so close to his nameday, perhaps because of the necromancy, and probably because it was a distraction from his impending interactions with his parents (to say nothing of how Danarius acted around his parents), Dorian had never had any trouble getting into the spirit of things for Funalis. He wondered if Sebastian had told him that they didn’t have the silent march at night here, or if he’d told him about the pageants they hosted instead. The bonfires, at least, were universal, as were the memorial lights. Fenris still lit candles for the forty-six Fog Warriors he killed as his last act as Danarius’ slave. He wondered if Dorian would still light candles for the seventeen people Danarius had killed as punishment for his last escape attempt, and then immediately stopped wondering. Of course he would: he was Dorian.

He then wondered if it was a sin to hope that Danarius’ soul now wandered the Void, the demons that inhabited it showing him every mercy he had ever shown his slaves, and decided that he truly did not care. Danarius was dead; he could no longer hurt anyone; he still wanted the man to suffer for what he had done.

He and Dorian ended up buying their candles from the same Chanter; they nodded politely to each other, and that should have been the extent of their interaction for that day. In retrospect, however, he was not sure why he thought that Kirkwall’s politics would not intrude, especially when so many of the deceased being mourned today were victims of the growing conflict between the Templars and the mages.

It started with the pageants. Each of the guilds and many of the noble houses sponsored a short miracle play, to be carted around Hightown to perform at various street corners every half-hour from noon until moonrise- Hawke had attempted that a grand total of one time since making her family’s fortune in the Deep Roads, and the attempt was perhaps best forgotten. The citizens in Lowtown would be having their own festivities: the alienage set up a stage beneath the vhenadahl and the elves would hold all their plays there, while various shops hired enterprising street performers to set up outside their doors. Fenris wandered around there for a time, before returning to Hightown for dinner. It was then that he noticed that the sponsored plays had a decidedly political bent to them. He almost didn’t need to look at the signs to see which play was being paid for by which guild. The one taking place during the Exalted March to reclaim Starkhaven from Tevinter, that was being paid for by the Weaponsmiths’ Guild, staunch supporters of Meredith and the Templars: the one which took place during the Fifth Blight, with a particular focus on the Senior Enchanter and the Witch of the Wilds that had helped defeat the archdemon, that was sponsored by the Merchants’ Guild, staunch supporters of Hawke, and therefore the mages. Hawk feathers were a major part of the costuming, as were masks with beaks: many of the characters had names like ‘Kestrel’ and ‘Eyas’. No one came to confront Fenris about it one way or the other, though; people kept their distance as he ate, and by the time he was finished, the moon had risen and the carts had been cleared off the street.

He knew better than to expect that to be the end of it, so it was with resignation that he noticed that one of the massive piles of wood being arrange for the upcoming bonfires came complete with an effigy of First Enchanter Orsino, recognizable only by virtue of his robes (a perfect replica) and ears (uncomfortably elongated).

Dorian was leaning against a garden wall some distance away, watching.

“Please tell me I’m completely misreading things, and this happens every year,” Dorian said when Fenris drew within earshot.

“You have not and it does not,” Fenris told him.

“Lovely.” Dorian sighed, and the pointed behind Fenris. “Oh look, is that Knight-Commander Meredith?”

Fenris expected to see the actual Knight-Commander, but it was an effigy of her instead. More care had been taken with the physical features of her effigy than Orsino’s, but it was disturbingly scantily clad.

“Someone’s idea of her, at least,” Fenris remarked.

Dorian hummed thoughtfully as he straightened back up. “Well. I’m off to fetch Hawke.”

“And I Aveline,” Fenris replied.

By the time he and Aveline arrived with the bulk of the guard, Hawke was already on the scene, flanked by Dorian and Merrill. So was the actual Knight-Commander.

“Believe me Meredith, we all find the sight of that disturbing,” Hawke said tiredly. “But I’m sure that we can all agree to take down both of the effigies and glower at each other like civilized people without having to hunt through the crowd for blood mages.”

Fenris looked at Merrill at that. It was the first he had seen of her since her Keeper had sacrificed herself: she seemed calmer, and it was not merely the fact that she was not crying which made him think so. She noticed him looking, and nodded once in his direction. He returned the gesture, and then followed Aveline over to join them when she finished giving her orders to her men. Meanwhile, Varric fought his way to the fore of the crowd, and he could see Sebastian’s white armor, fairly glowing by the light of the moons, drawing nearer. It would not surprise him in the least to learn that the mage was making his way up to Hightown from his clinic, drawn by Hawke’s presence in the middle of trouble.

Aveline stood squarely across from Meredith, a mulish expression on her face: Hawke had suspected that Jeven’s allegations had support from the Templars, and she’d obviously shared her suspicions with Aveline. Meredith, for her part, looked far more anxious than any woman in full armor backed up by a dozen armed and armored men should looked.

One of those men was Karras. Fenris frowned, and placed himself between Dorian and the Templars. He doubted Karras would do anything here, but he did not want anyone Hawke had dubbed ‘Ser Rapey Creep-Ass’ to get any ideas.

“Look, no one is saying that there aren’t blood mages in Kirkwall,” Hawke was attempted to placate Meredith. “What I am saying is that it seems unlikely that blood mages are behind this, unless you think that they can perform blood sacrifices in effigy.”

There was a shout, and the bonfire at the feet of Orsino’s effigy was lit ablaze- and the effigy started thrashing.

“Well, shit,” Hawke said, already running towards the fire as the mage supporters took the flames for a declaration of war and surged past the Templars to their less well-armed supporters. The rest of them followed her, save for Aveline, who was leading her men on crowd control duties. Merrill conjured rock armor for herself, and Dorian placed a barrier over the fire itself, to stifle the flames. Hawke, who still managed to surprise him with how quickly she could move, had already cut the person free and dragged them onto the cobblestones by the time they’d managed to cross the square.

They cut off the still smoldering robes, and removed the paper mache mask, revealing the features of a crying elven boy no older than twelve, still gagged with his hands bound in front of him. His legs were badly burned, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing

“Shit,” Hawke repeated, removing the gag.

“ _Venhedis kaffan vas_ ,” Dorian agreed, though that might have had something to do with the whiskey jug that had been thrown at his head. The square had devolved into rioting now, Templars brawling alongside their supporters against the mages’ faction while Aveline and her men attempted to restore order. One of them rushed at their group with a steak knife Fenris recognized from a nearby bistro. Before he got within Fenris’ range, Varric sent a bolt from Bianca shooting towards his feet, and the man turned away in search of easier targets.

“Shit,” Hawke said again.

“Hawke, do you think-” Dorian began.

Hawke didn’t bother letting him finish. “Check with Aveline first, make sure she warns her men.”

Aveline was busy fighting on the other end of the square, a distance of some three hundred feet filled with scores of rioting people.

“Right,” Dorian said, conjuring a barrier around himself. “Is there anything else you need while I’m in the neighborhood? Should I ask to borrow some eggs or milk or anything?”

He twirled his staff a little, getting it into a good position for sweeping the legs out from underneath an opponent. Fenris recognized the stance from their sparring matches.

“I wouldn’t say no to some elfroot,” Hawke said.

Dorian reached inside his vest and pulled out a vial. “Catch.”

Hawke caught it with a grunt of thanks, and Dorian darted into the crowd.

Fenris followed him, his tattoos alighting, and causing the rioters to scatter in fear. Dorian conjured another barrier around him just in case, and they made their way to Aveline.

“Aveline!” Dorian called. “How do you feel about-”

“It’s about bloody time!” Aveline shouted. “Guardsmen! Lower your visors! Protect your eyes!”

“You too Fenris,” Dorian said, and that was all the warning Fenris got before Dorian jerked his staff upwards in a motion not unlike punching the sky. The sky seemingly responded by exploding: a searing blast of light and heat, and then a great rumble like a thunderclap, punctuated by screaming and the sound of glass breaking.

“Ah,” Fenris said with sudden understanding. “Flashfire.”

“That… took out a great many more windows than I intended it to,” Dorian said sheepishly.

Aveline merely sighed and started coordinating her men as they arrested the now-dazed rioters. Meredith was regrouping the Templars as well, and heading towards Hawke.

“Dorian,” Fenris said.

“Yes, I noticed.” Dorian nodded, and they returned to Hawke’s side.

“-my men rescued him,” Meredith was saying.

“Yeah, some great bloody rescue that was,” Hawke said. “I particularly liked the part where someone tried to burn him alive in an effigy of Orsino. Very heroic, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It was certainly dashing,” Dorian drawled, drawing the attention of several Templars.

“Incredibly dashing,” Hawke agreed, in her least agreeable tone of voice.

“His clan abandoned him in the Planascene Forest, as the Dalish are wont to do when they have more than three mages,” Meredith explained. “We were transporting him to the Circle, where he will be safe.”

Merrill stiffened, glaring daggers up at the Knight-Commander.

“I suppose he tripped and fell into these bindings and the bonfire just sort of happened, then?” Hawke retorted.

“Of course not,” Meredith snapped. “He must have escaped.”

Hawke sighed and got to her feet, arranging the boy more securely in Merrill’s arms. “Fifteen seconds or less, usual wager,” she told Varric.

Varric nodded.

“Okay Knight-Commander, surprise me,” she said. “How do you think this tiny, tiny child escaped from one of your well-armed smite happy patrols, and why wasn’t he able to do the same to get away from whoever tried to burn him alive?”

“Blood magic,” Meredith said.

Varric sighed heavily, and began rooting around in his pouch for coin.

“Meredith, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t very good at surprises,” Hawke said. “And if you’re trying to tell me that the boy is a blood mage, then I’m the next Viscountess of Kirkwall.”

Fenris blinked. He was far from the only one- though Meredith was not among their number. “I don’t mean the boy. I mean the people who attacked my patrol and attempted to sacrifice him.”

“So you’re saying he was kidnapped? I thought you were assuming he’d escaped,” Hawke asked.

“And if blood mages were attempting to use him as a sacrifice, they picked a piss-poor way to do it,” Dorian added snidely.

Fenris looked at him askance, and unsurprised to find him glowering combatively in the direction of the Templars. Dorian had never quite managed to retain his rationality in the face of hurt children. In a way, he was almost glad that Danarius hadn’t managed to kill that instinct. Mostly, he disliked the fact that Karras was looking at him.

“And what would you know about it, Magister?” Karras asked. Fenris shifted, making sure the other man knew that Dorian was not standing alone.

“I’m sorry, were you addressing me?” Dorian asked.

“That’s right, Magister.”

“Well, first of all, you should know that I am no magister,” Dorian told him. “Secondly, I’ll admit that as I’m neither a healer or a blood mage it’s not my area of expertise, but I’m fairly certain the idea of 'burns don’t bleed' was the reason why we invented cauterization. It seems like it would be difficult to use blood magic if there’s not any blood.”

“Well said, Dorian,” Hawke said, drawing the Templars’ attention back upon herself.

“Be that as it may, he is a witness, and we need him to catch whoever is responsible,” Meredith said.

“Really? Did you and Aveline switch jobs and forget to tell me?”

“We have jurisdiction over crimes invol-”

“Hawke,” Merrill interrupted her. “I recognize him. He’s from my clan- he must have gotten lost.”

“That settles it then,” Hawke said. “The Dalish are outside of your jurisdiction. I’ll have my own healer look after him, and once he’s well enough we’ll send him back home to his family.”

For a moment the two women merely stood there, glowering at one another over their smiles, and then Meredith nodded sharply. “As you say, Champion.”

“I’m glad we agree, Knight-Commander.”

She turned to leave, her Templars following her.

“ _Funalis beatus_ to you too,” Dorian called after them, like an idiot.

Karras turned around and moved his hand in the familiar pattern of a smite. Merrill gasped; Fenris gritted his teeth as his markings jolted unpleasantly as though trying to separate themselves from his skin; Dorian narrowed his eyes.

“That was entirely unnecessary,” he said. Fenris moved next to him, hefting his greatsword.

“Does it make you nervous, to face me without your magic?” Karras asked. “It should. Your elven guard dog can’t be at your heels all the time.”

“Refer to Fenris as any sort of animal again, and you’ll find out how little I need magic to hurt you,” Dorian snapped.

“Enough,” Hawke said, helping Merrill to her feet. She was still carrying the boy, who was crying softly. Fenris thought he was repeating a word over and over again: “ _Mamae, mamae_.”

“You have places to be, Ser Karras,” Hawke said. “And none of them are here.”

Karras left.

“I would not advise attracting the attention of the Templars,” Fenris told Dorian. “That one in particular.”

“Really? And here I thought he just oozed trustworthiness,” Dorian said.

“He certainly oozes something,” Hawke muttered darkly.

“I should go to the Chantry. There will be people in need of sanctuary,” Sebastian said.

“Go,” Hawke told him. “And Varric, can you-”

“I’ll grab Blondie,” Varric said, already leaving.

He and Dorian followed Hawke and Merrill inside, where Merrill deposited the boy on the couch. The boy whimpered.

“ _Ir abelas, da’len_ ,” Merrill said, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“Merrill?” Hawke asked.

“He’s not actually from my clan,” Merrill said. “Or he wasn’t born into it, at least. It’s possible he was travelling there, if he is a mage. Clan Sabrae is without a First or a Second. Assuming they’re still around Kirkwall.”

“They are,” Fenris said.

“How would you know?” Merrill asked.

“Because unlike you, some elves are still willing to talk to me,” Fenris said. Hawke, glared, so he elaborated. “It came up in a discussion about the upcoming Arlathvhen in Halamshiral. They’ll have to move soon if they don’t want to be late, but as far as anyone can tell they’re staying put on Sundermount.”

“I wonder if that has anything to do with the Antivan Crows,” Hawke mused.

“The- what?” Fenris asked.

“Antivan Crows,” Hawke said. “One of them approached me the other day- apparently he’s hunting a former compatriot of his who has hidden himself with the Dalish. I’m planning on waiting until Isabela returns before taking that one on.”

Anders arrived at that moment, which put an end to their talk as the mage waved them all out of the room with an impatient sigh. Merrill and Hawke went upstairs to change their clothes, which left Dorian and Fenris standing awkwardly in the front hall.

“How are you?” Fenris asked.

“Not panicking, which is more than I’d really dared to hope I’d be if I ever found my magic suppressed again,” Dorian replied.

That had not been what Fenris had been referring to when he’d asked- he’d merely meant to fill the silence. In hindsight, though, that was an obvious concern. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think so,” Dorian said. “I’ll be fine after a good night’s rest.”

“Would you like me to walk you back to your hotel?” Fenris offered.

“I…” Dorian hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I am offering,” Fenris told him.

“Right,” Dorian said. “Well, so long as you don’t mind, yes, I’d like that.”

“I’ll tell Messare Hawke that you two gentlemen have turned in for the night,” Bodhan called out.

“I think we’ve been dismissed,” Dorian muttered.

“We shall take our leave then,” Fenris told the dwarf.

Things had quieted a bit outside, though the streets were still littered with the detritus of the riots, short though they had been.

“I think Danarius’ assets have just shrunk the cost of several windows,” Dorian quipped. It was a bright spot in what was otherwise an awkwardly silent walk through the darkened streets. Fenris bade Dorian farewell outside of his hotel and returned to the mansion, at a loss as to what he wanted to do.

* * *

Fenris somehow managed to forget Dorian’s nameday until the occasion was practically upon them. Hawke was not pleased.

“What does he even like?” she screeched at him in the marketplace in exhasperation. “You like greatswords, Anders likes rare herbs, Isabela likes tunic embroidered with ‘felicitate me’, but what does Dorian like?”

“Books,” Fenris blurted out.

“Books!” Hawke cried. “What kind of books?”

They ended up buying out a significant chunk of the booksellers’ wares in the Hightown Marketplace, and no small number of used books from the one in Lowtown. Dorian appeared to have great fun critiquing their lack of taste, which was the highlight of an evening largely spent trying to avoid the man.

Perhaps sensing the awkwardness, perhaps because things in Kirkwall were growing ever-more tense in wake of the All Soul’s Day riots, his friends did not bother him again until Isabela returned from Fereldan.

She did not come directly to him- the scent of sea salt had faded from her skin as it tended to after a few days’ worth of bathing- a fact which he noted without caring one way or another until she stretched, stood, and started to speak.

“Hawke asked me to tell you that the boy who was nearly burned alive during All Soul’s Day was fully healed, and that Merrill’s clan took him in,” she said.

Fenris hummed thoughtfully, doing a stretch of his own. “Is he really a mage then?”

Isabela shrugged, and started reassembling her outfit. “He wasn’t really talking enough to let us know.”

Fenris nodded.

“So, you’ll never guess who else we saw on that mountain.”

“Who?”

“Guess.”

“I thought you said I’d never guess.”

“Try.”

Fenris hummed again.

After a long moment of silence, Isabela lost patience. “I’ll give you a hint: he’s from Antiva.”

Now Fenris remembered. “The renegade Antivan Crow?”

“Exactly. _My_ renegade Antivan Crow, to be exact: the one who killed my husband.”

No wonder she hadn’t come directly to him. “He wore you out, did he?”

“Deliciously so,” Isabela confirmed with a purr. “It’s funny though- the entire time we were running around that mountain, he and Dorian were flirting.”

“What.”

“I was kind of tempted to take a rain check from Zevran and let the pair of them have at it,” she continued, as though discussion the weather. “That man needs to be laid.”

“You think everyone needs to be laid,” Fenris pointed out.

“Everyone does need to be laid!” Isabela protested. “And besides, Dorian agrees with me.”

“He…does?”

“He said something about wanting to celebrate his first wedding anniversary as a widower in style,” Isabela told him with a waggle of her eyebrows that looked even more ridiculous when she was still nearly naked than usual. “I recommended the Rose, but he said that he sees so many of the whores that work there when he’s hanging around Anders’ clinic that he’d feel bad being there. I’d offer, but…”

“You’re not his type,” Fenris finished for her.

“Which is a shame, because I have the feeling that would be a lovely threesome,” she sighed.

There was a moment where Fenris could believe that she was referring to a threesome of herself, Dorian, and Zevran. It did not last very long.

“Look, Fenris: you’re my friend. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Was that somehow in doubt?”

“And I care about you, as a friend,” Isabela said, rather than answering him.

“I care about you too.” It came out sounding more like a question than he had intended it to.

“Which is the only reason why I’m saying this, because you are a fantastic lay, and I would love to continue being laid by you, but… you need to sort out what’s going on with Dorian.”

Fenris turned that statement over in his mind as he watched Isabela dress.

“There is nothing going on with Dorian,” he said at last.

“Not while you continue to shut yourself in here, brooding your way through the wine cellar,” Isabela said.

“I am uncertain as to why that would be a concern, as that is how I have spent a great deal of the last six years,” Fenris pointed out.

“That’s how you spent that last six years before Dorian arrived,” Isabela corrected him. “You’ve been different since then. I wouldn’t say that you were content, but it seemed easier for you to be happy. You joked more often. You went out a lot. And then you had whatever argument you had that trashed the furniture in your kitchen, and now you’re trying to go right back how you were before, and failing miserably.”

“That does not imply-”

“I have eyes, Fenris, and even if they don’t glow in the dark the way yours do I can still use them to see. You care for him too, and not in the same way you care about me.”

“You and he are very different people.”

“And you have very, _very_ different feelings for us,” Isabela finished dressing and sat down at the edge of the bed. “Think about it. Figure out what you want instead of ignoring it and hoping it’ll go away.”

She kissed him goodbye, before adding “Of course, if you decide not to pursue him, or it doesn’t work out, you always know where to find me.”

Fenris stared out of the bedroom door long after she’d left the mansion.

* * *

Fenris did not often get drunk. Or at the very least, when he was drunk, he was not stupid drunk, not drunk into a stupor, not drunk enough to make it hard to fight. At first it had be a by-product of his place as Danarius’ bodyguard: he’d needed to taste every drink that passed into Danarius’ hands first, and later had done the same with Dorian’s, and still attend to his duties and dispatch any less subtle assassins. After he’d escaped, it was a matter of survival, that he keep a clear head. Even after he arrived in Kirkwall and began to relax a bit, he did not allow himself to drink so much that he could not get to his feet and deal with any intruders. Drinking until he could not remember what he’d done the previous day was happening more and more frequently, but there was clear evidence which suggested that he was a very mobile blackout drunk.

On the night of the thirteenth anniversary of Danarius and Dorian’s wedding, he did not break that pattern. He was utterly capable of walking from his mansion to Anders’ clinic. His judgment, however, had clearly been drunk very deeply into the Void.

“What are you doing here, elf?” Anders asked. “I was asleep, damn you. Do you know how rarely that happens these days?”

“I’m here for Dorian,” Fenris replied. Dorian was friends with Anders; Dorian was not speaking with Fenris; therefore, to know about Dorian, he had to speak to Anders. This was the sort of logic that five bottles of wine gave him.

“Well, Dorian’s not here!”

“No, I mean- is he all right?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you get off my doorstep and ask him?”

“Because- because- because-”

“Yes, spit it out if that will get you to leave any fa-”

“Because I do not want to hurt him!” Once the words were out of Fenris’ mouth it was as though he could not stop. “We had a fight and now he thinks he was wrong but we both fought and I miss him but I can’t promise that I won’t fight him again but-”

Anders laughed. It was a startling sound, and Fenris stopped speaking.

“I can’t believe this!” Anders cried. “I cannot believe- do you realize what’s happening here? You’ve shown up on my doorstep, drunk as a skunk, because you’ve got a crush!”

Those were not words which made sense, he was sure of it. “What.”

“You have a crush!” Anders repeated. “It is my opinion as a fully-qualified and very experienced healer that you, Fenris, mage-hater extraordinaire, are infatuated with Dorian Pavus, a mage from Tevinter. It would be hilarious if I didn’t think it was reciprocated!”

“What?”

“Maker only knows why! You seem less a man and more a wild dog to me!”

“I-I- you are mistaken. That is not a possibility.”

“It’s not possibility, it’s a reality.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes it is!”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes it- you know what? Come inside. Let’s not air Dorian’s personal life in front of all of Darktown.”

Fenris hesitated for a moment, and then followed the mage into his lair.

“Sit. Or stand. Whatever suits your contrariness, I don’t care,” Anders said. “Look, what is the problem here, exactly? I’m asking this on Dorian’s behalf, so if you could join me in just overlooking the fact that we hate each other more than a little, that would-”

“I cannot be infatuated with Dorian,” Fenris said.

“Why not?” Anders asked. “Is it because he’s a mage? Because his father’s a magister? Because he’s too good for you? I’m a fan of that last one.”

“I cannot, and neither can he infatuated with me,” Fenris said.

“Why not?”

“You cannot possibly understand.”

“Well, I can’t if you don’t tell me!”

“You don’t know,” Fenris told him. “You don’t know what he made us do to each other.”

That, at least, had the effect of shutting Anders up, his teeth clacking together. For one long tense moment, there was nothing but silence.

“Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels,” Anders said at last. “I don’t want to know that about you.”

The lack of pity in his tone was gratifying. It was not as though Anders would not judge him, but Anders would judge him the same way he had always judged him, and the judgment was always the same: that he had failed in some moral fashion by not aligning himself with the mages. Anything new he learned about Fenris tonight would not change his opinions. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this, but it’s not like you actually give enough of a crap to care what I say about my love life, right?” Anders continued, unknowingly echoing Fenris’ thoughts.

“You are correct,” Fenris confirmed.

“Okay. Right. Good,” Anders said nodding. “So, Karl- you remember who Karl is?”

“I do not.”

“Karl Thekla. My friend who was transferred to the Gallows and made Tranquil for being in contact with me.”

Now he recalled the man. “And then you killed him.”

“I had to kill him,” Anders corrected impatiently. “But long before any of that, Karl and I- we weren’t friends, exactly. We were… more intimate than that.”

Fenris was not surprised. “I had guessed you were lovers.”

Anders ignored his commentary. “One time, not our first time, but maybe our fourth or fifth time, we got caught. Mages weren’t supposed to have sex, really, and we were especially not supposed to form relationships. So the Templar who caught us said that he’d do us a favor and not turn us in. All we had to do in return was put on a show. And then he kept an eye on us, waiting to catch us alone, because then he could get a repeat performance.”

“I have no wish to know that about you either,” Fenris said.

“Tough,” Anders replied. “Because here’s my point: we didn’t stop being together because of him. We didn’t let him have that power over us. He had enough control over what we did as it was; fearing what he would do when he found us together would have only given him more. Danarius is dead- the only power he has over you and Dorian is the power you give his memory.”

“It is not the same thing,” Fenris told him. “Dorian and I- we had no first time of our own. We had many times, and all of them at Danarius’ pleasure. Can you honestly say that you and Karl would be lovers if that had been how it happened to you?”

“For this metaphor to work, I would also have had to rescue Karl from the Gallows. I would have had to bring him here to my clinic, and have helped him recover. We’d have stayed up late drinking and complaining about Templars and speaking around anything that happened to us while we were separated. I’d have felt guilty that I’d managed to escape the Circle and he had to be rescued from it, we would have woken each other up with our nightmares and-”

Anders cut himself off. Fenris stared at him. Was Anders jealous, of all the stupid useless things for the mage to be? And not even jealous of Fenris, who he apparently thought Dorian wanted- no, he was jealous of the helpless, hopeless situation he and Dorian found themselves in, because they were both alive to be in it.

Fenris could almost pity him then.

“I cannot tell you how badly I wish that had happened,” the mage said at last. “So, for Dorian’s sake, maybe you want to consider that the two of you could be together without Danarius at all. Or, if that’s too much for you, think of how displeased he’d be to learn that the two of you had developed a relationship. Anything to add a little joy to the boy’s life.”

That, at least, he could respond to.

“Dorian is not a boy,” Fenris snapped. “He is thirty-one years old. You were at his nameday party less than a month ago.”

“And if he’d heard me call you a wild dog earlier he’d have jumped down my throat too,” Anders said. “Think about. Not in my clinic.”

“I will consider what you have said,” Fenris allowed, and turned to leave.

He had not quite made it to the door when Anders called out “Wait.”

“Mage?” he asked.

The mage was rummaging around in his crates, and did not reply until he had withdrawn a vial from one of them. “Hangover cure,” he explained. “Take it before you sleep, and you’ll wake without pain. So you have no excuse not to see Dorian in the morning.”

Fenris took it suspiciously, and then took his leave.

* * *

Come the morning, he was mildly surprised to find that Anders’ hangover cure worked as advertised, and that he had a complete and embarrassing recollection of the previous night’s events. He had gone to Anders and Anders had given him romantic advice. It was not something which could be born with any measure of grace, so he banished the abomination from his thoughts in favor of the new information he’d received about Dorian.

Or at least, what Anders had said about Dorian- though, as much as he tried to find some justification for it, he could not for the life of him come with a reason why the mage would lie, especially not when it was a lie that had apparently come with a great deal of personal information.

So he was infatuated with Dorian. That was not such a difficult thing to admit as it might have once been. So Dorian was infatuate with him. He had a more difficult time wrapping his head around that, but... it did explain some of his more recent behavior. So they were infatuated with one another. Did it count as infatuation when it was mutual? Was there some mitigation when the situation was so impossible?

They were not in Tevinter. It would not be some stolen moment between two slaves of the same master, or even a string of such moments. It would be longer than that, more continuous, two free men in city far from Tevinter, embarking on something like a partnership, who just happened to have also have been the two slaves stealing their moments not too terribly long ago.

Could that be? It seemed impossible, to separate the one scenario from the other. It seemed impossible, for those two scenarios to be true.

Of course, the fact that the hangover cure worked also meant that he was up and dressed when Hawke broke in.

“Oh good!” she said as she walked into his kitchen. “I was hoping you’d be around!”

“Do you have need of me?” he asked.

“I have need of giving you something,” she told him, laying a very distinctive greatsword on the table.

Fenris stared at it. “Do you know what this is?”

“A Blade of Mercy,” Hawke said promptly. “An enchanted replica of the sword Archon Hessarian supposedly used to kill Andraste as she burned: they’re now given out by the Archon in recognition of important work done, and are considered a mark of honor in the Imperium.”

“That’s a very accurate summary,” Fenris remarked.

“I might have asked Dorian about it,” Hawke admitted. “I had a thought, you see: you like greatswords, this is a greatsword from Tevinter, maybe it Dorian could use it as an olive branch. He was afraid that you wouldn’t want anything to do with it, either because it’s from Tevinter in general, or because it’s something Danarius had coveted.”

Fenris burst out into laughter.

“I feel like I missed a joke,” Hawke admitted once he’d managed to quiet himself.

“It is… difficult to explain,” he told her. “Suffice it to say, it is not the sword.”

“And now I feel like I missed nine jokes and all of them would be difficult to translate.”

“An apt metaphor,” Fenris said, and nearly started laughing again.

“So, you like the sword a lot, is that what’s happening here?” Hawke asked. “You like the sword a lot a lot. You like-like the sword. There’s liking and swords involved. Am I getting close?”

“There is progress being made, I believe,” Fenris told her. There was progress he intended to make, at least.

He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to pursue Dorian, exactly, but not pursuing him didn't seem any wiser. He felt he should try, at least.

“Are we still talking about the sword?”

“Thank you for the present,” Fenris said. “I will take special joy in killing slavers with it.”

“You’re welcome,” Hawke replied. “Also, funny story: Dorian may have agreed to infiltrate a ring of slavers under the guise of being Danarius, with Varric posing as his dwarven advisor.”

“This does not sound like a funny story.”

“Says the man who was just laughing at a sword,” Hawke said with a dismissive wave. “Anyhoo, the upshot is they’ve been gone all night, Aveline has sent the guard, they keep finding people who claim that there was a mage setting their captors on fire and a dwarf somehow using crossbow bolts to pick the locks on their manacles, so we’re pretty sure they’re alive, but seeing as the guard keeps finding all these tunnels we didn’t know were there, we have no idea where they currently are. They probably don’t need a rescue, per say, but…”

“But you intend to provide them with one anyway,” Fenris finished for her.

“And kill a fuckton of slavers in the process,” Hawke agreed. “Shall we?”

“We shall indeed,” Fenris said. He and Dorian had much to discuss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** :  
> Anders has revealed that he had sex with Templars who would come into his cell while he was in solitary. He does not personally view it as rape, but it was rape, as consent given when your other options potentially involve death, demonic possession or madness is not consent.
> 
>  **Tevene** :  
>  _kalends_ : the first of the month  
>  _Funalis beatus_ : "Blessed Funalis" or "Blessed All Soul's Day"
> 
>  **Elven** :  
>  _Mamae_ : Mommy  
>  _Ir abelas, da’len_ : I'm sorry, little one.
> 
>  **Food** :  
> [Caecuban](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caecuban_wine)= a highly sought after vintage in Ancient Rome.
> 
>  **General Notes** :  
> Theoxenia is the Greek concept of extending hospitality to a stranger only to discover that they're actually a god.   
> I picture the _Tyrcelle of Denerim_ series to be the sort of book series Tamora Pierce would write if she were a city elf in Thedas.  
>  "A shared shipwreck is sweet" is a Roman proverb, basically meaning that shared trauma brings people together. Canon!Dorian is well-traveled, but for this version of Dorian going to Kirkwall was his first time traveling out of the country (save for Seheron). I've tried to reflect that by showing him translating things literally rather than idiomatically.  
> [Mircale plays](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mystery_play) were a thing.  
> I realize the Sword of Mercy is only obtainable during Best Served Cold and that hasn't happened yet, but... meh.
> 
>  **Author's Notes** :  
> So, I have an outline for this whole thing, and I'm going to try updating on the first and fifteenth of each month. Operative word being try, as these chapters keep getting longer and longer. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for commenting and reading. I can't tell you how much it brightens my day to hear from you.
> 
> EDIT 5/13/15: I am definitely not going to make the fifteenth, as I had death flu, and also chapter nine is shaping up to be 20k+ words of Dorian Pavus: Traumatized Relationship Failboat. Currently I am at 11K words, and I'm being very optimistic in my assessment of being halfway done: therefore, I'm going to aim for the first of June, by which point I should be finished with the chapter, and maybe even have gotten a start on the next (much shorter) one.
> 
> EDIT: 5/24/15: Did I say 20K words? Ahahhahahahahahhahahahha. Ha. Ha. Ha ha ha.  
> I'm still hoping to get things settled by the first, but don't be too surprised if it comes and there's nothing because this chapter turned into a fucking NaNo project.
> 
> EDIT 5/31/15: Currently I'm at 44K words, and there are two and a half scenes remaining (which very easily could push me up over 50k, and at this point I'm sort of hoping it does). The take away of this is that I'm now aiming for the third as my posting date, and will not return with chapter ten until July, so that I can work on the other half-dozen fills in progress. Thank you for your patience, I hope you all will enjoy the novel that is apparently chapter ten. 
> 
> (Scary side-note: there is a very good chance that chapter fifteen will be _even longer_.)


	9. Dorian: Turn Up The Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian is doing just fine, really. Also in which Dorian is the last person in Kirkwall to realize that he's become one of the main leads in a romantic comedy. The two are only somewhat related.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback-heavy chapter. As usual, they're in italics, so feel free to scroll.

If he’d been asked how he would have wanted to spend the first post-Danarius anniversary of his wedding, he absolutely would _no_ t have said ‘by pretending to be Danarius in order to infiltrate a slaving ring on behalf of the city guard of Kirkwall’ but as things stood now, what complaints he had were unrelated to the occasion. After all, he absolutely w _ould_ have said ‘spitting in the old bastard’s urn’ and what better way to do that then to use his name to save people from suffering under magisters who shared in his views of the world?

No, his complaints centered around considerably more immediate concerns, such as the way his spellcasting was still chewing through his mana at an alarming rate, or the fact that these tunnels apparently went on forever, or his near certainty that they’d been fighting for long enough that it was the day _after_ the anniversary now.

“How do you still have crossbow bolts?” Dorian asked.

“That’s between myself and Bianca,” Varric replied.

Dorian had half-hoped that he would have some insight as to how to carry more lyrium potions, but alas, it seemed that he was stuck with what he had: a poor-quality ring of regeneration, two vials of mediocre potency lyrium, his staff, and two of Hawke’s daggers, one sheathed in his boot and the other on his hip.

Hardly ideal, but then, he’d fought with far less. He’d fought with the damn collar on.

There was the pounding of footsteps as yet more slavers rushed past the alcove they were sheltering in, swearing as they entered the room that he and Varric had already cleared of their compatriots.

“ _Fasta vass_ , what did this?”

“Shit! I think that’s Danarius’-”

 _That_ possessive was not something he was inclined to put up with being applied to him.

“Actually, it’s just Dorian, if you don’t mind,” he corrected, stepping out from the alcove as he cast a horror spell on the slavers in the other room. He’d been experimenting, and he was finding that he had more control over how much power he threw at a person if he was throwing it at multiple people. Thus the horror spell still cut his available mana in half, but it also incapacitated fourteen people. It was only then that he saw that the slavers likely had not been speaking of him at all.

Fenris was a glowing blue streak of light that his brain insisted was moving around the peripheries of his vision, even though he knew he was looking directly at him as he slaughtered his way around the room.

“Aveline wants some alive for questioning,” he called out. He wanted to cast a protective barrier around the elf, but placing Fenris under any kind of spell seemed like a bad idea when he’d already flooded the room with his magic. Instead, he focused on maintaining the horror spell as Fenris did his work. “Also, hello Fenris!”

“You have yet to provide those people?” Fenris replied, without breaking his kill streak. It seemed a little unsporting, to stab them while they were writhing on the ground in fear, but considering these were the same people who considered chaining a twelve year old to the bars of his cell before beating him half to death as best practice, maybe that was only fair. “And hello yourself.”

“I’ve been too busy enjoying my success at burning people alive without setting fire to the entire city,” Dorian told him. Fenris grunted and shifted his grip on his sword. “How’s the weather today?”

He heard Varric snort behind him, but thankfully the dwarf decline to comment.

“Chilly and a bit damp,” Fenris replied. “You have been enjoying yourself then?”

“Tremendously. Everyone should spend their anniversary running around never-ending slaver infested tunnels at least once, it’s such a delight.” He was being sarcastic, mostly, but it was impossible for him to keep the grin from his face. Fenris was speaking to him again- not just inanities either, Fenris was _bantering_ with him. And, also, Danarius was dead, and he didn’t have to interact with his parents at all. What a time to be alive!

“Was this not the style you expected to celebrate in?” Fenris asked, grunting a little as he knocked the last of the slavers out cold.

Dorian made a show of looking around the room. “I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it.”

“I wasn’t expecting this either,” Varric chimed in. “How did you get past us?”

“We came in the other entrance!” Hawke called out. She rounded the corner flanked by a trio of guards, her Champion’s mantle splattered in blood and grinning ear to ear. “I figured we’d meet in the middle, but you guys work quick! We haven’t even been here for an hour!”

“We’ve been here for over half a day,” Varric reminded her.

“There’s another entrance?” Dorian asked.

“Yes,” said one of the guards- an elven woman, Dorian noted with surprise. “It’s right by the alienage. We were always warned as kids to stay away from there unless we wanted to get grabbed. We didn’t really listen when I was growing up, but the kids nowadays do, so I thought it was worth a try.”

“And it was,” Hawke said cheerfully, gesturing at the elven woman with a bewildering amount of glee. “Varric, look, Lia’s all grown up and kicking ass with Aveline!”

“Good for you, Lia,” Varric congratulated her.

The name rang a bell, but try as he might, he couldn’t remember why, nor did he recognize her face.

“I’m terribly sorry, but have we met?” he asked her.

“I don’t think so,” Lia said at the same time Fenris told him “She’s Elren’s daughter.”

“Oh!” Dorian said, the pieces clicking into place. He did remember there being some mention of Fenris rescuing her, but no one had mentioned that she’d grown up and joined the city guard.

“You know my father?” Lia asked.

“We hired him to restore the mansion,” Dorian explained. “Fenris’ mansion, that is.”

“Oh,” Lia said. “Pop didn’t mention you were a mage.”

“Well, surprise! I’m a mage,” Dorian said. “And also not an apostate, before you begin to worry about a potential conflict of interest.”

“So if you’re here, does that mean we’re done?” Varric asked hopefully.

“Well, we could-” Hawke began, but she was interrupted.

“No!” Aveline called as she and a handful of other guards entered the room behind Dorian and Varric. “No, Hawke, you’re done.”

“Aveline!” Hawke cried. “Light of my life, moon of my-”

“Not now, Hawke,” Aveline said wearily. “The Knight-Commander has gotten wind of the extent of the raid, and now wants to check things to make sure that the mage underground isn’t involved.”

“So I should leave now before I do something she would very briefly regret?” Hawke finished for her.

Aveline gave Hawke her flattest, most unimpressed look Dorian had witnessed yet, which apparently counted as affirmation.

“Alright, everyone not currently a member of the guard, Merrill’s drawing up bath water for us all! To the alienage!” Hawke called out. “Have fun with the Knight-Commander, Aveline!”

He, Fenris, and Varric all followed Hawke out, Fenris slowing a bit so that he was walking alongside Dorian, who couldn’t help but feel happier for it. Clearly, Fenris had decided to try trusting him, had started to forgive him, even. It was such a relief that he felt a bit lightheaded. He’d missed Fenris terribly- he’d missed eating together, sparring together, reading together, and Maker help him, but he’d especially missed arguing together. Arguing was one of those little luxuries he hadn’t even realized was a luxury until it became the sort of thing that would get him slapped, or locked in his bedroom for days on end, or restricted to whatever food Danarius would feed him from his own hand, or worse. He hadn’t even done so with his friends after his marriage: he hadn’t wanted to potentially upset the other slaves when they already had to put up with being Danarius’ property, and when it came to Mae, Rilienus, and the members of House Alexius he was always very aware that they stood to gain nothing by associating with him, and hadn’t wanted to push his luck.

He didn’t want to push his luck now- he wanted Fenris to feel at ease in his presence. They weren’t quite there yet, he could tell: Fenris kept looking at him out of the corner of his eye, before turning away. Still, at least Fenris was approaching him, rather than merely running into him on the street. Or putting up with Dorian showing up drunk on his doorstep.

“You’ve been well, I take it?” Fenris asked him finally.

“Yes,” Dorian replied. “And yourself?”

“Tolerably so,” Fenris said. “I must admit, I had grown used to your presence in the mansion. It feels strange to be the only one living there now.”

Dorian beamed at him. He must look like an utter lunatic, he knew, but he didn’t care. Fenris had missed him too- he seemed to want to fix things with Dorian, which suddenly made it very possible that things could be fixed.

“Well, it’s not exactly a summer cottage,” he remarked, trying to dampen his enthusiasm a little as Fenris blinked at him. “You could probably rent the place out to a half-dozen families and still feel lonely.”

“Yes, well,” Fenris coughed uncomfortably, and Dorian began running back what he’d said in an effort to trace where things had gone wrong. He needn’t have bothered, because the next thing Fenris did was to ask “I was wondering if you might like to dine out with me, after we’ve cleaned up?”

“Yes, of course,” Dorian said before he could actually think of an intelligent reply. Once his brain had been kicked back into gear, he added “Though, after the night I just had, I’ll probably pass out the moment I sit down anywhere.”

“Dinner then?” Fenris asked. “I could meet you at your hotel after sundown.”

“That sounds lovely,” Dorian said.

He didn’t stop smiling until his head hit the pillow.

* * *

_He has a few seconds warning before Hadriana enters the room: just enough time to mark his place, set his book aside, and get to his feet. He bows to her, a stiff bob that doesn’t go down half as low as she wants him to be, but where that would normally infuriate her, now it merely makes her smirk. That is not an encouraging sign. He was already made anxious by this unexpected meeting- now, he’s filled with dread._

_[Maker, I’d almost managed to forget how unpleasant she was.]_

_“Lady Hadriana,” he greets her curtly. “Don’t you have a little field trip to the Marches to prepare for? Or perhaps some babies to kick into the Nocen Sea? You’ll never progress to kicking fully-grown people if you don’t practice, you know.”_

_Hadriana’s smirk widens into a devilish grin. “Eager to see me gone, Dorian?”_

_“It will be difficult to find your equal in pleasurable companionship,” he retorts. “Though I suppose I might try the prison barges.”_

_“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she tells him. “My ship sails for Kirkwall with the dawn.”_

_[ **Venhedis** , I remember how this went now.]_

_“You’re all ready to go, I take it, if you’ve time to visit me in my rooms,” he says._

_“There’s just one thing left for me to do,” she says, stepping closer._

_He slides to the side a bit, so that he’s no longer standing in front of the cabriole, and has a better shot at making it to the door if it comes down to that._

_[Not that it helped.]_

_“Oh? And what might that be?” he asks, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels._

_“Master Danarius has granted me a boon,” Hadriana says, drawing nearer._

_“How generous of my husband,” he replies, trying to decide whether or not he can bolt without paying for it later. “Can I assume you’re here to ask me to pass on your gratitude?”_

_“Oh no, Dorian,” she purrs, standing so close to him he can feel her body heat. He realizes that the time to run has already come and gone. “I’m here to collect. My boon is a good luck kiss.”_

_That’s all the warning he gets before she attacks. There’s no better way of putting it: she crushes her mouth to his, and he stumbles back, cracking his head against the wall. His mouth opens to gasp in pain and she shoves her tongue in, one of her hands squeezing his shoulder. That’s all it takes to hold him in place: his heart is beating out of his chest, his stomach churns, and he bunches his fists into the material of his trousers, thinking ‘don’t fight, don’t fight, you can’t fight, you’ll make it worse’._

_[I really have to talk to Hawke about training that instinct back out of me. One of these days someone’s going to grab me during a fight and that impulse is going to get me killed.]_

_The hand not on his shoulder is making its way down his chest. It comes to rest between his legs and squeezes, sharp nails digging through the fabric of his trousers and smalls. He wrenches his head to the side with a gasp. “That… is a little more than a kiss, dear lady.”_

_“Consider it a preview,” Hadriana tells him as she lets him go. “I’m sure the boon Danarius will grant me when I return his little wolf to him will be much more **involved**.”_

_[She’s dead. She died almost four years ago. Fenris crushed her heart just like he crushed Danarius’, and left her to rot in the caves on the Wounded Coast. If I ever see her again in the flesh, it will be because I’ve raised her corpse to do my bidding.]_

_She leaves. Dorian waits until he stops being able to hear her heels clicking against the marble floors before he lets himself slide down the wall and crumple into a quivering heap on the floor._

_He’s well aware, even as he wraps his arms around his knees and tucks his head in to his chest, that this is a ridiculous reaction to have. He’s lived through a lot worse than this: chances are Danarius will come into his room tonight looking for quite a lot worse than a kiss and a bit of a grope, and he’ll live through that as well. It’s not as though he wouldn’t survive a night with Hadriana, even if she’s been very explicit in her desires to make such a night as unpleasant for him as Danarius would allow. It would hardly be the most horrible thing to have ever happened to him. In terms of physical damage, it probably wouldn’t even make the top fifty._

_But Maker, he doesn’t want to have to do that. He hasn’t been forced into having sex with a woman yet and that’s been something he’s clung to these past nine years. He doesn’t want that to go away. He **especially** doesn’t want it to go away if he no longer has ‘Fenris is free’ to cling to either._

_[It didn’t happen. It never happened. Fenris stayed free and killed her, and this is all over now.]_

_He’s still curled up in a ball when Danarius enters his room. He doesn’t bother getting up. Making Danarius think that he’s weaker and more fragile than he actually is has been his strategy for some time now, which occasionally entails showing **actual** weakness, to lend verisimilitude to the whole act: and right now he feels very, very weak. _

_“Hadriana has already collected her boon, I see,” Danarius says, sounding amused._

_Dorian nods. “Yes,” he says, in case the gesture wasn’t enough of an answer for him._

_Danarius leans down and tugs up on Dorian’s collar. He stands, and lets Danarius turn his face this way and that. He’s been crying, he realizes- not weeping or anything, but there are tears. Danarius sweeps a thumb under his right eye, and he shudders._

_“Please,” Dorian blurts out. “Please don’t let her…”_

_Maker, he can’t even finish that sentence._

_“Oh my poor boy,” Danarius coos. “You soft-hearted fool.”_

_[Wait.]_

_Danarius tilts his head back, and he has a split second to decide how he’s going to respond before he’s being kissed. Dorian leans in towards Danarius and opens his mouth- he gets a mouthful of beard for his trouble, but Danarius makes a pleased sound and doesn’t turn violent. He’ll take what he can get._

_[You miserable old buzzard. This was exactly how you wanted me to react, wasn’t it? You wound Hadriana up like a top and then let her just loose enough so that I’d come running to you for protection. So that I’d be extra sweet and docile until the threat had passed. Everything about this moment was orchestrated by you, and I fell for it.]_

_Danarius breaks the kiss, but doesn’t let Dorian pull back out of his personal space. “I didn’t know that was the boon she wanted,” he explains._

_Dorian nods._

_[Liar.]_

_“I asked her to choose something frivolous, something to make her coming sea journey easier. It didn’t occur to me to place any other restrictions on it- I’ll know better, when she returns,” Danarius continues. “This is as far as it is ever going to go.”_

_[You filthy fucking liar.]_

_“Thank you,” Dorian says, and there’s no need to manufacture any sort of emotion to color his tone with- he is pathetically, helplessly sincere in his gratitude. “Thank you, husband.”_

_Danarius’ answering smile seems approving, even warm, and Dorian is so relieved his knees quake with it._

_[I am so glad you’re dead.]_

* * *

Dorian had been surprised, some weeks ago, to notice that he’d started noticing attractive men again- not in an aesthetically pleasing sense, but rather in a sense of actually being attracted to men, as in sex.

It had been before the riots, when Isabela was leaving for her trip to Fereldan. Many of her crewmembers were present during their send off for her, including a very well-built midshipman named Kai. He had deeply tanned skin dotted with freckles, the occasional peek of a tattoo visible around the cuffs, hem, and neckline of his shirt, with his strawberry-blond hair braided down the center of his head, and piercing blue eyes.

Dorian had not been aware that he was staring, which was probably why the man had caught him at it. Kai had held his gaze, smiling a slow, sultry smile before indicating the space next to him. Dorian had responded by downing five pints in quick succession and then fleeing back to the Theoxenia.

It had been a friendly invitation, to the tune of ‘Hey there, do you want to have a fun time with a sailor?’, rather than any kind of threat. On a purely intellectual level he knew this: he also knew that Danarius was far beyond caring who Dorian found attractive and vice-versa, and that even if it had been a threat Isabela would have cheerfully cut Kai’s throat and set sail down a midshipman come the morning. Pure intellect wasn’t enough to combat the terrible panic that had flared up and then refused to be smothered: what if Danarius found out that someone thought he was interested, what if he found out someone was interested in him, what if it became more widely known that he wasn’t as free as he appeared on paper?

The last time he’d looked had been at Rilienus some three years previous. He hadn’t even _wanted_ the man, really, but he’d been powerless not to look. Adolescence had done Rilienus a world of favors, transforming him from an adorable boy into a lithe young man, but he was still very much the same cheerful, cheering bookworm who’d wanted Dorian’s advice about taking classes above his age level what felt like an entire lifetime ago: the contrast between his lingering naivety and his new maturity was enthralling. Rilienus himself hadn’t noticed- nothing would have happened if it had been Rilienus who had noticed- but his father had, and his father had been Danarius’ friend since his pre-Dorian Laetan days. If he wanted recompense for the way Danarius’ catamite was apparently lusting after his heir, then Danarius wasn’t going to deny him- Danarius was going offer up some suggestions, Danarius was going to join in, Danarius was going to bring the issue up again and again until it took considerable effort for Dorian to so much as look in Rilienus’ _direction_ without panicking.

Of course, even after he’d tormented himself with what had been done to him, there was the remaining fact that he shouldn’t have ever been looking at anyone in the first place. Not as he had, at any rate: looking at men was fine, even fucking men was fine, if they were your social inferiors, or better yet your property, but that had never been Dorian’s preference had it? No, he enjoyed being on the receiving end of things, and worse, he had to dream of silly fripperies best left to the Soporati: love, commitment, partnership. Marriage involving all those things, even- he’d been aware of _that_ particular quirk in Tevinter’s marriage laws long before Danarius had invoked it. To judge from some of the justifications his father had spouted over the years, he’d been painfully obvious about it too.

Not that he’d ever had any expectations of realizing that dream. Not that he’d thought that was what Kai had been looking for. If Dorian had accepted, they might have had a night of fun, either in The Hanged Man or here in his hotel room, and that would have been the end of it. There would have been nothing wrong with that (he knew that, running around Kirkwall with Hawke these past several months had _shown_ him that in a very concrete way, and even if many of his instincts still screamed at him for admitting it, it was also getting easier to quiet them) they would have had a little bit of mutual pleasure before parting ways, and it had been a while for him.

‘It had been a while’- now that was a misleadingly bland way of putting it. Yes, the last time he’d been fucked had been the morning of the day Danarius died some six months previous, hadn’t it? He’d woken up with Danarius pulling on his collar, spread his legs, grunted when Danarius pushed in, and focused on trying to breathe while his collar was cutting into his windpipe. The whole tableau had been worn so route by that time that he’d very nearly been _bored_.

There was some small part of him that was disappointed to find that it hadn’t gone away, that he was still an invert, that he still desired men, and that he desired them in such an inappropriate way. Another, somewhat larger part of him was glad: he hadn’t wanted to be cured, not by his father and certainly not by Danarius. Mostly he was too distraught to pay attention to either of those two parts of himself. There was the cringing, humiliating fear of being the object of desire that Danarius had apparently managed to beat into him, the disappointment at himself for feeling it when the light-hearted reflexive flirting he did with Isabela and Jethann hadn’t set it off but had given him reason to believe he’d managed to shed that particular fear, a distant, detached fascination at the disconnect between finding Kai attractive and then finding Kai to be attracted to him in return, and the despair that he would never be able to overcome all of that, or even any of that.

He hadn’t slept that night. Who needed nightmares when his waking mind was so adept at torturing himself? He’d stayed in the bath until the water had gone stone cold, wrapped himself up in as many layers as he could stand, ordered a pot of tea from the early morning kitchen staff, mixed it liberally with a bottle of rum and watched the sun come up. Eventually, once the sky had started turning blue and the streets had started to hum with activity, he managed to unwind himself for long enough to look at the situation with a little more defiance and a lot less fear.

It was hardly as though this was an odd reaction to be having: even if he hadn’t known that from his time with Danarius, he’d heard it from Anders- both directed towards himself and at other patients of his- often enough. He’d spent the overwhelming majority of his adult life as a very unwilling concubine- of course that would have an effect on things. It wasn’t insurmountable; he wouldn’t let it be insurmountable. He would just have to go about surmounting it in a controlled manner, so that he didn’t spiral down in a panic again, that was all.

Looking seemed like a logical start to things- actually, deliberately looking, as in setting out to admire any good-looking men in the area, rather than just getting distracted by one involuntarily. He used to be rather good at surreptitiously checking other men out: it wasn’t a skill set he’d used since he was a teenager, but hopefully it would be easy to pick up again even after years of disuse.

He set goals for himself, to start. He’d spend an hour sitting outside of this café looking. He’d notice one good-looking man in this area before leaving. That sort of thing. He wasn’t so sure if he was quite as good at not being noticed as he remembered being, because there was really no reason for a man not to check out other men in Kirkwall, and therefore no one cared to comment so long as it was done in the sort of setting where he was unlikely to be looking to hook up with anyone. Even when it came to the sort of place where someone might reasonably expect to be looking for a quick toss, there wasn’t any real risk of an adverse reaction stronger than a firm ‘no, I’m not interested’, nor were people inclined to press the issue if he declined when they approached him.

The whole exercise mostly stirred up memories of the night where he and Isabela had gotten on the subject of asses and their virtues. It had largely been an abstract discussion, started when they were drunk and planning on getting absolutely sloshed, and by the end of it Dorian was largely using hand gestures to illustrate his points, while Isabela was saying things like ‘cutie-patootie booty’ and giggling.

Or, to put it another way: he mastered looking readily enough, and was at a complete loss as to what the next step would be.

Flirting in a serious manner rather than a flippant one, perhaps? But that seemed unfair to the other man, whoever he might be, when he wasn’t even sure he could manage much flirting without panicking, let alone anything else. Unfortunately, all other further steps fell under that same ‘anything else’ category, which was extremely frustrating. The whole situation was frustrating: once he’d noticed how many good-looking men there were in Kirkwall, he’d also noticed that he was still very much into good-looking men, but the thought of acting on those desires was beyond daunting. What was he supposed to do?

He’d asked Anders for advice in a fit of desperation. Unfortunately, his advice had been to find someone he trusted to try things with, which was not exactly helpful. Sebastian had shot arrows more bent than himself, Varric seemed utterly disinterested, Anders was his healer and a tad too possessed for his tastes, and Fenris… he wouldn’t impose himself on Fenris for all the world.

There were people he knew and considered friends who didn’t know quite as much about his situation as the regular members of Hawke’s merry band of adventurers, by which he mostly meant Jethann. There were plenty of people nowadays who had some idea that he hadn’t been a free man in Tevinter, but little idea of what, exactly, he’d been kept for. Jethann was the other way around: the elf had guessed some of what had happened long before the word ‘slave’ had ever been uttered in his presence. He’d grabbed Dorian’s arm once, while he’d been trying to distract the man from how Anders was stitching the skin between his shoulder blades back together, and something in his reaction had made Jethann blink and release him.

“I thought they treated mages better up north?” he’d asked.

“My being a mage was rather ancillary to the whole situation,” Dorian had replied. “An interesting footnote, at most.”

“Ooh, big words.”

“One of my many talents.”

Jethann had nodded and they’d never spoken of that moment since. But, as he was lying on his bed, unable to sleep, and growing increasingly frustrated with his lot in life, he was beginning to seriously consider going to the Rose for the express purpose of speaking of it. He was sure he could match the price of whoever was whipping him bloody, talking was unlikely to cause Jethann any sort of harm, and there had to be _some_ kind of wisdom he could impart. It would be a win-win situation all around.

It was at the moment that he realized that he hadn’t masturbated in years. Literally, it had been years- in excess of a decade, as a matter of fact. It had been part and parcel of not having any real control over his body, and then it simply hadn’t occurred to him to get back into the habit. Still, it was such a glaringly obvious next step that Dorian could have strangled himself. He did slap himself on the forehead and shout “ _Fasta vass_ , I’m such an idiot!” with enough volume that a gaggle of women passing by in the hall outside his room burst out into giggles. The whole scene was so ridiculous that he felt it unwise to continue that night.

The sense of ridiculousness lingered all throughout the next day however, with the thought ‘I intend to jerk off tonight’ popping into the forefront of his mind at very inappropriate times, which was to say all the time. It didn’t really get him in the proper mood, and with his preferred method of unwinding (drinking) being a little counterproductive to the proceedings (of getting it up) he was momentarily at a loss as to how to proceed.

Eventually, he decided to take a bath. Then he decided to do it in the bath. He pictured Kai, because at that point he kind of felt a bit like blaming the man for inspiring this (still faintly ridiculous) chain of events.

It was… weird. He wasn’t sure if that was because he no longer had a teenager’s stamina or refractory period, or simply because it had been a while since he’d touched himself for his own benefit only. But, still, everything worked as it should, no memories of Danarius intruded upon things, and if he felt a bit unsatisfied when he was done and stepping out of the tub, then at least he wasn’t panicking.

It did help, a bit. He was able to settle himself, somewhat- it seemed less daunting now, to approach or be approached by one of the men he was looking at, more and more often. He didn’t need to set goals for that any longer, he didn’t bother trying when it came to masturbating, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that _something_ would happen sooner rather than later, something that would push him towards… something. He didn’t know. He only knew that he tired of his own hand quickly. He wanted to kiss, to touch, to have someone to hold onto, even if it was just for the duration. He wanted- something.

Zevran Arainai was absolutely a whole lot of something.

He was lovely to look at, certainly, and quick-witted. He knew it too, and knew how to use it, that was outrageously obvious in his flirtations. More than that, Dorian knew how the Antivan Crows recruited most of their assassins, from when Danarius was considering using them to get Fenris back. Someone had thought they owned Zevran once: it made things easier, somehow, that information. It wasn’t so wide a distance to cross, for them to reach some kind of understanding, not with that knowledge tucked safely away in the back of his mind.

He spent two days running around Sundermount thinking ‘this is it’, mentally preparing himself to actually go for it. It was hard to say whether he was more disappointed at the way that Isabela had gone after the assassin instead, or at himself for the tiniest bit of relief he felt when the two of them disappeared for their interlude.

He could have tried the Rose. He did try the Rose, actually, but he only got as far as the bar. It was his own conscience’s fault, more than anything else. What went on there wasn’t even close to what went on with Danarius, he knew that. It wasn’t even like what went on with bathhouse slaves all over Tevinter. But he _knew_ some of the people who worked there and ‘if I don’t have sex with this man, I might not have enough money to feed my family’ didn’t seem like a much better choice than ‘if I don’t have sex with this man, Master will punish me’. Considering how often denial of food factored into punishments, the two were far too close for his comfort. He simply couldn’t bring himself to approach the madam.

He could have gone elsewhere, to one of the taverns that dotted the waterfront, perhaps. They were sure to be populated with any number of men who would be more than willing to have a toss with him without there needing to be any factor involved beyond how attractive they found one another. There was also no sure way of being able to tell if he was hooking up with someone who would be too rough and not stop if he said ‘no’, let alone notice that he’d panicked and forgotten that saying ‘no’ was an option.

This was the singularly frustrating line of thought he’d decided to pursue while getting washed and dressed for his dinner with Fenris. Why he was thinking about this now was beyond him. Maybe because it beat picking over their argument for the umpteenth time.

What had he been _thinking_ , bringing Fenris’ family into things? And when Fenris had been spitting about how magic made his markings hurt and his dealings with Varania only confirmed what he thought about mages always falling to temptation Dorian had _set the bloody table on fire with his magic_!

He got so agitated that he poked himself in the eye for the seventh time that evening, and dropped his kohl stick with a frustrated growl. Maker, what wrong with him! Fenris had seen him exhausted and covered in blood and all manner of unspeakable filth just this morning. It wasn’t as though he was going to care if his eyes weren’t done up correctly.

Dorian sighed and reached for his kohl again. This wasn’t something he even needed make up for, probably, unless they were eating somewhere especially fancy- and they were probably going to The Hanged Man. He’d just feel strange without it. Besides, he had lovely eyes, they deserved to be brought out.

He swiped over his right eye before he could overthink things again, and studied his reflection in the mirror. This was just a- hopefully friendly- meeting on neutral territory. It was a first step towards regaining the kind of equilibrium Dorian had thought they had before things had exploded.

Right. So. This was nothing for him to get nervous over.

He spared a glance at the window, cursing when he noticed how dark it was getting. The last thing he wanted to do was to make Fenris wait.

* * *

Fenris was indeed waiting for him in the lobby when he finally made it downstairs.

“Finished preening?” he asked before Dorian could apologize.

Dorian smirked, pleased with the teasing. “Never. And who could blame me?”

He motioned at his face, and the corner of Fenris’ mouth tugged upwards. Dorian could feel himself puff up a bit: it was always such an accomplishment to make Fenris smile.

“So, are we headed down to the Hanged Man, or did you have something different in mind?” Dorian asked. It was then that he noticed that Fenris was dressed a little more formally than usual- there was still armor involved, but it was light, flexible, and almost dressy. The look suited him- a thought which Dorian tucked away as soon as he noticed it.

“Not The Hanged Man,” Fenris told him. “There is a restaurant here in Hightown which supposedly has very good ravjuli. I thought we might try it.”

“Ravjuli?” Dorian asked.

“It’s a bit like lagana, but stuffed.”

“What with?” Dorian asked.

“Cheese, mainly. I think you’ll like it.”

And he was right.

The restaurant in question wasn’t one of the ones they’d been at before- it actually seemed to Dorian that it might cater of a higher class of clientele than what had been their normal fare back when he was living at the mansion, though not so much as to make him feel underdressed. Mostly, it was the fact that he was pretty sure that one of the two women sitting very, very close together was a member of one of the noble families that had come knocking on Hawke’s door while he was over. On the other hand, Fenris wasn’t the only elf around- some of them weren’t even staff, so the atmosphere was classy without being overbearingly oppressive about it.

Dorian relaxed- no need to worry that someone was going to take offense at Fenris’ existence, and no need to worry about what kind of diseases might be swimming in the soup. Perfect.

“Good choice,” he said.

“We have yet to try the food,” Fenris replied.

“Well, Hawke and Merrill seem to be enjoying their meal,” Dorian said, pointing to where the Champion and her girlfriend were giggling over some kind of violently orange stew.

“What?” Fenris yelped, whipping around to face them. Hawke and Merrill looked over at the noise.

Merrill waved to them. Dorian waved back. Hawke made a series of constrained flapping motions with her arms. Fenris sighed.

“Shall I presume that means ‘ignore us so we can get on with our romantic dinner’ then?” Dorian asked.

“That seems wise,” Fenris muttered, turning his back to the women once more.

Their waitress came over and was immediately sent away to fetch the wine menu, which left the two of them at apparent loose ends for conversation for a short while.

“So. Is the hotel to your liking?” Fenris asked.

“It’s comfortable enough,” Dorian said. “There’s dwarven plumbing, and room service. I can get all my meals delivered right to my room via dumbwaiter, provided I send down the order between prime and matins. No more banging around the kitchen trying to figure out where we stuck the butter this time.”

He couldn’t quite keep the wistfulness from his tone during the last sentence, but he managed to not wince at it.

“I’m sure you’re finding the butter easier to manage now that I’m not sticking it in the icebox,” Dorian continued.

“It’s easier to spread when it’s not frozen, certainly,” Fenris replied.

“Things in general must be easier.” He hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but once the words were out of his mouth, he realized that they really couldn’t be anything other than harsh. “I mean- I’m not going to aggravate anything with my spellcasting if I’m not around to cast any spells, right?”

Fenris shrugged. “How goes your work with your spellcasting these days? I imagine that you’ve made progress, given that you no longer have to worry about aggravating me.”

Dorian grimaced. “It’s not really moving along any more than it previous had been. I can’t practice at the hotel- someone might panic and call the Templars, and I get the distinct impression that the staff at the hotel would be much less understanding about scorch marks than you were.”

“You seemed to be doing fine this morning,” Fenris said.

“I was… effective, true, but not optimal,” Dorian said. “Anders and I have hit upon channeling energy into multiple targets. It, bizarrely, affords me a greater degree of control over how the spell affects each target. The practicing I’ve been doing has mostly been with him in a cordoned-off alley in Darktown. Our hope is that by practicing manipulating the energy flow across several targets I’ll eventually learn how to stop putting so much energy into my spellcasting to begin with, but we’re really just groping our way blindly through the dark. Neither one of us knows what this is- as far as I can tell, no one knows what this is. Danarius’ use of that collar appears to have created an entirely new magical syndrome. If things were a little less hectic, I’d say that there should be some kind of study- the way I use my magic now is completely different than it was before, and everything about how that involves the Veil is just plain strange. And before you bring it up, yes, it’s possible the fact that we’re in Kirkwall where the Veil is thin to begin with is exasperating things, but- but you don’t actually want to talk about this, do you?”

Fenris was watching him with the same mildly perturbed look he’d occasionally caught him giving people who had tried to instigate a duel with Dorian by insulting Danarius. At Dorian’s question, he gave himself a little shake, and said “Well, I did ask.”

Dorian nodded. “That you did. Well, I suppose that the long and short of it is that my magic’s good for clearing rooms, and for everything else I’ve got my staff blade. It’s worked well enough thus far.”

“Hawke mentioned something about daggers?” Fenris asked.

“Yes. She’s teaching me to throw them. And she’s taught me a new drinking game as well, based off of how well I’m hitting the mark,” Dorian told him. “That’s how she learned it, apparently: some of her father’s friends taught her. Did you know he was a mercenary?”

“I remember hearing some discussion on the matter,” Fenris replied. “I think he was a member of the Crimson Oars, at some point after becoming an apostate.”

“It’s very strange. Now that I’ve actually met the woman, it makes perfect sense, but when I was just hearing of her…” he shrugged. “The first we heard of her, it was in the context of a noblewoman trying to restore her family’s fortunes. Was that at all what it was like?”

“Not really,” Fenris said. “The deep roads expedition was undertaken to restore some of their lost fortunes, but it was less a matter of returning to the nobility and more a matter of no longer living in squalor in Lowtown. It was an undertaking done on behalf of her mother, and perhaps her sister as well: as I understand it, Hawke used the idea of being a pampered aristocrat to help keep them going after they’d abandoned their home to the Darkspawn and her brother died. When they arrived in Kirkwall only to find that Gamlen had drunk and gambled the family fortune away…”

“Hawke had a brother?” Dorian asked.

“Carver Hawke, Bethany’s twin,” Fenris answered. “He was a warrior- he joined King Cailan’s army just as Hawke had, and when the Battle of Ostagar ended in defeat, they fled back to Lothering to collect Bethany and their mother just ahead of the horde. They met Aveline, who was travelling with her first husband, Wesley, as they fled. The six of them were cornered by an ogre- Wesley contracted the Blight during the fight and had to be killed. Carver outright died.”

“But the rest of them survived?”

“They were rescued. By Flemeth, a Witch of the Wilds. Who turned into a dragon.”

Dorian waited, and when no punch line seemed forthcoming, said “That seems a bit weird, even for Hawke.”

“I would not have believed it myself, had I not met the woman after she was revived from a locket in a Dalish ritual. Turning into a dragon is perhaps the least weird aspect of her.”

There was something in Fenris’ expression that spoke of having seen a glimpse of something so terrifyingly beyond what he wanted to deal with that he was torn between never acknowledging it and being unable to look away. It reminded Dorian, a little too forcefully, of nights where he’d woken up to Danarius crawling into bed all teeth and nails and brute force, the thick smell of blood from his research not quite able to mask the scent of burning ozone, sulfur, and the Fade itself. It had been very hard, on those nights, not to wonder whether the thing fucking him was even human still, or if something _else_ had slipped in.

“This… might not be very good dinner conversation,” Dorian suggested.

Fenris nodded gratefully.

“How about you tell me how you and Hawke met?” Dorian asked. “We’d heard that she’d hired you as muscle.”

“Oh no,” Fenris said, with a slight smirk. “It was the other way around. I hired Hawke.”

Fenris told him the tale, interrupted by the wine menu, their orders being taken, and Dorian’s own critiques of his tactics.

“And you somehow became friends after that?” Dorian asked wonderingly.

“No one was more surprised than myself,” Fenris replied. “At first I thought it was a mere matter of convenience, as we were both talented people in desperate circumstances. High-stakes jobs that more secure people would turn down would come to us, and we could watch each other’s backs. When Hawke made the decision not to bring me with her on the Deep Roads Expedition, I thought that would be the end of it.” Fenris shrugged. “They weren’t gone two days before Isabela showed up on my doorstep with Merrill in tow, saying that she needed my help in explaining Wicked Grace. I told her I didn’t know how to play. By the time Hawke returned, it was a regular, if not entirely easy, activity of ours, and Hawke and Varric greatly needed to distraction after the loss of their siblings.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but neither of them died,” Dorian said.

“Bartrand betrayed them. He left the rest of the expedition locked in the Deep Roads to die,” Fenris explained. “Varric was… he spent three years of his life loudly expressing to see his brother dead in a variety of creative and painful ways, but when it came time to actually strike the blow, he was pitying. We had him placed in an asylum, as you might recall- it is still unsure what caused him to go mad, though we suspect the lyrium idol they found in the Deep Roads is at the root of it. It took some months before we learned of Bethany’s survival, and when she did write, it was… not what Hawke had hoped it would be.”

“How so?”

“Bethany resented having to join the Grey Wardens,” Fenris said. “It is not as though she would have preferred to die, but that life is more akin to the one she’d been trying to leave than the one she’d been trying to lead.”

“Ah,” Dorian said. “Well. This wasn’t very good dinner conversation either, it seems.”

Fenris snorted. “At least we are not discussing our own families.”

“Maker forbid!”

They were rescued by their meal arriving, which gave them something else to do with their mouths, and then gave them a safer topic of discussion: what foods they missed from Tevinter, namely anything with an actual kick to them. The food wasn’t bad, but it was spiced to be sweet, or savory, or at the most, piquant- nothing to clear the sinuses, as it were. He missed that- they both did. There were wine vintages they missed too, and the regular afternoon showers where it would pour for twenty minutes without bothering to get cloudy, and year-round warm weather in general.

There was more that they didn’t miss, most of which also feel under the heading of ‘not very good dinner conversation’ but some of which was just silly. They didn’t miss the long-winded opening of the Magisterium floor after Urthalis, they didn’t miss the new crop of magelings that would get roped into the cow-tipping prank and would stop traffic with floating bovines every summer, and they really, really did not miss the robber crabs.

“You don’t get to pull that face,” Dorian told him. “ _You’d_ already escaped when they got into the refuse of Magister Antonidas’ research. He was doing blood magic with dragon’s blood, and then he didn’t properly dispose of the excess, so when they got into the trash there was all this magically charged dragon’s blood just _waiting_ to be nibbled upon.”

“I take it that failed to kill them?” Fenris asked.

“Fenris, they were robber crabs. They eat everything, and nothing stops them,” Dorian reminded him. “One of them turned into a rage abomination, and the others just started floating and glowing red hot and farting fire around the entire neighborhood.”

“Oh, well, as long as they were restricting themselves to that,” Fenris replied, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards again.

“It was incredible,” Dorian continued. “At first Danarius thought I was doing it somehow, and then we thought the Qunari were attacking. But no, it was this purely the work of crustaceans who’d eaten improperly disposed of blood magic rubbish. And they were setting the labyrinth on fire, with all of us standing around in our nightclothes, various kitchen and gardening utensils in hand, trying to keep them off the house while the singularly crabby rage abomination was flailing about in the distance and the fire brigade was being bribed to move faster.”

“How did-” Fenris snorted a little, very nearly laughing. “I can just imagine his _face_.”

“No, no- you have to imagine his face when he first realized that they were crabs. A fact which he discovered because one flew up to his balcony and was floating right behind his head,” Dorian explained gleefully. “So I when finally get him to turn around and it’s practically in his face. He is basically nose to claw with an unexpected giant floating fire crab, and he bloody _shrieks_ like a little girl.”

Fenris did laugh at that, though he kept his fist pressed against his mouth as he did so.

“It was incredible,” Dorian repeated. “He spent the entire night on the balcony, shouting orders and threats and- it was nonsense, really, we stopped listening after a while. I went down to the front, so that I could direct the fire brigade, though I was mostly trying to not meet anyone’s eyes because if I did, I knew I would just start laughing and never be able to stop. And sure enough, once the prefect arrived I took one look at him and lost it completely. Ludus had to direct me to bring them around the back so they could see for themselves what the trouble was. Which was fortunate, because I don’t think they would have believed me if I’d just told them what was going on.”

“I imagine they had trouble believing it with it going on in front of their own eyes,” Fenris said, still snickering slightly.

“They stood there gaping until one of the crabs started swooping at them,” Dorian confirmed. “Then they believed it very quickly.”

Fenris gave one last snort and signaled for the check. “I’m surprised we haven’t yet run into a similar problem here.”

Dorian nodded, and held the dregs of his wine up in a mock toast. “To Kirkwall: it might be awash in blood mages, but at least none of them have accidentally created a horde of flying fire-farting demon vermin with their trash. Long may that sentence stay true!”

Fenris didn’t bother to join him in his toast, but that might have just been because he’d already finished his wine.

“Do you miss it?” Fenris asked, once they were outside.

“Miss what? Dragon’s blood magic trash fueled robber crabs of fiery death? No, Tevinter can keep those.”

“Being in a place where it’s allowed.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that it absolutely hadn’t been allowed- Antonidas had been made to pay a hefty fine and compensate his neighbors for their destroyed property, had lost the license for his laboratory and then someone had fed him poisoned crab meat during the Andoralis festivities besides- but then he realized it wasn’t actually about the crabs.

“Being in a place where magic is performed openly, you mean?” Dorian checked.

“Yes,” Fenris confirmed.

“I… I don’t know,” Dorian admitted. “Danarius’ wasn’t exactly taking business trips to Rivain or Nevarra, so Tevinter’s really the only thing I have to compare it to, and I- a lot would have to change in Tevinter, before I would be comfortable there.”

“Would the magic be a part of that change?”

“Well, I would prefer much less blood magic, certainly,” Dorian huffed.

Fenris arched an eyebrow at him.

‘Are you _trying_ to pick a fight?’ Dorian nearly snapped. He took a deep breath and counted back from three instead.

“Alright, no, I wouldn’t want to make Tevinter a place where mages were corralled away,” Dorian admitted. “And I dislike the way the Templars practice their business here, even if I can see the allure of the theory.”

“The allure-?” Fenris asked.

“A group of mundane soldiers with the ability to dispel and suppress magic? We could do with a few like that back home,” Dorian said.

“I… am surprised to hear you say that,” Fenris said, sounding very surprised indeed.

“I don’t mean that we should institute the sort of Circle prison system they have down here,” Dorian hurried to correct him. “I mean like- there are people in the Magisterium who would have loved to have taken Danarius out, but between the lengths he went through to make himself difficult to kill and the fact that they weren’t willing to go those same lengths, they didn’t even try. Even now, the Imperium is riddled with idiots who think they can solve any problem if they just throw enough blood magic at it. If there was some way to stop them from being able to cast any magic, even for a few moments, it would shift the balance of power entirely.”

“So… you would see them become part of the ongoing politics of Tevinter?” Fenris asked. “Templars as back up in conflicts between mages.”

“I’d see them changing the way those conflicts play out,” Dorian said. “I’d just as soon as not export this Mage-Templar conflict anywhere, and it’s not like an escalation in the conflict between mages and mundanes would solve the Imperium’s problems. Not any more than an escalation in the conflict between humans and elves would.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

“ _Venhedis._ I don’t suppose we could forget I said that, could we?” Dorian asked from behind his fingertips. Without waiting for a reply, he continued with “I don’t mean to underplay the importance of either of those conflicts. And it would certainly be significant, the fact that you’d have to be from the Soporati to learn such abilities in the first place. If they could actually have a fighting chance against magic, then the Publicanium might actually become an important body of government. But, you know how people panic at the thought of social inferiors becoming their social equals, let alone their social betters. Unless they could be convinced that it was just a new part of their ongoing conflict, they’d deem it a rebellion and invoke ‘any means necessary’ to crush it.”

“So… let the Magister think they’re in charge, and let everyone else go on with what actually needs to be done?” Fenris asked with a pointed look.

“That… does rather sound like I’m planning on running a household, doesn’t it?” Dorian acknowledged with a wince.

“It is a strategy employed by many a majordomo for many years,” Fenris replied. “I suppose it must have some merit.”

“Quite.”

Fenris was teasing him again, which was good- Dorian removed his hand from his face again, and managed to avoid a low-hanging potted plant before he actually collided with it, which was also good. And they were now right across the street from his hotel, which was a bit of a mixed bag.

This was a really unsatisfying note to end the evening on.

“Are you alright?” Fenris asked.

“Yes. Why?” Dorian asked.

“You’re sort of… huffing?”

“Ah,” Dorian did not huff. “Well, I- do you think we can try this again, some time?”

Fenris took a step back- and _kaffas_ , they’d been right on top of one another, why hadn’t he noticed that?

“Yes, I’d like that,” Fenris said. “Is there something you’d particularly like to do?”

“Surprise me,” Dorian said. “Would you like to meet back here at a particular time, or-”

“Sundown, tomorrow?” Fenris said.

“I- have a practice with Hawke scheduled. Those tend to go late,” Dorian told him. Maybe he could see if Hawke had time not in the late afternoon, if this was going to be a regular thing. “Day after tomorrow?”

“I’ll see you then,” Fenris said.

“See you,” Dorian replied, and then fled before the relief he felt came out in an embarrassing gush. This was good, they could build off of this, and despite all the awkwardness they were going to be able to do it again. He could work with that.

* * *

_He wakes- a word which only applies generously in this case- to a pounding head, with something thick and cloying coating his tongue and making his teeth ache._

_[Ah, magebane. This is before the collar, then.]_

_He can’t open his eyes, and his limbs are heavy and immovable. Sound seems weird and muffled, and there’s a sense of rhythmic lurching movement in time with the throbbing in his head. Where is he? A carriage? A boat, even? Was there some kind of yacht party he attended last night and never left?_

_[Shit.]_

_There’s a shooting pain from his arse. For a moment he’s annoyed at himself and whatever incautious decisions he made some hours previous that are causing him to twinge now, and then other sensations start to register. A hand on his hip. A grunting noise from above him. His complete lack of clothes. The pain in his arse intensifies as he realizes what’s happening, and starts to struggle._

_[Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit **vishante kaffas**.]_

_“Get off me!” The words come out garbled and weak. He flails, one-armed: his left arm is pinned under his chest and he can’t coordinate enough to pull it free. He manages to force his eyes open and his vision focuses on a pillow and a plain stucco wall._

_The man who was- the dick in his- Dorian is no longer being fucked and he manages to turn enough to get a good look at his attacker._

_[Alright, fine, you’ve got me, whatever is responsible for this. I wasn’t expecting this to go all the way to back to **the wedding night**. Jokes on me, ha ha, you can stop now.]_

_“I was wondering when you would join us.” It’s- he knows this man. He’s a magister- his father’s had meetings with him. And there he now sits, naked on the same bed as Dorian, with his cock slicked up and bobbling out in his direction, looking vaguely amused by the proceedings. It’s incomprehensible._

_“What-” Dorian doesn’t know how to even phrase his demand for things to make sense._

_The man has the nerve to chuckle as he reaches for him. Dorian throws himself back against the headboard, shaking with the effort of it, a fire incantation on his lips that never manifests on this side of the Veil._

_“Magebane,” the man- Danarius, that’s his name, Danarius, the latest of the brown-nosed Laetans to come sniffing around- explains. “I asked your father to drug you before you arrived, but I had you dosed when I got here, just in case.”_

_Dorian gapes at the man. He can’t possibly expect Dorian to believe-_

_[Well, I don’t know why he thought I’d believe it, but it’s true.]_

_“My father,” he says, voice shaking, “Will kill you.”_

_“Your father agreed to this,” Danarius tell him._

_“Liar!”_

_[It’s not like I’m wrong, but in this instance he is, unfortunately, telling the truth.]_

_“Come now, my boy,” Danarius says. “Don’t make things harder on yourself.”_

_Dorian’s eyes narrow. “I’m not going to make things easy for you.”_

_[Why did I announce myself like that? Why am I talking to myself like I can influence how things are going to go? I don’t know me, that’s a good question!]_

_He barely manages to stand up before Danarius’ bodyguard stops him. He’d been standing so still Dorian hadn’t noticed him, until he was there, glowing, his hand on his chest, **in** his chest. _

_Dorian bellows, and falls back on the bed, terrified._

_Ah, that’s right, his brain supplies, too little too late- Danarius is a malificar of the highest order, the mind behind any number of monstrosities, including his bodyguard._

_“Learned your lesson?” Danarius asks._

_Dorian nods. Right then, lesson learned- he’s got to distract the bodyguard if he wants to escape._

_Danarius makes a displeased hum._

_[And now I want to flinch, but can’t. That’s an odd feeling.]_

_“You know, my boy, I don’t think you have,” Danarius says, standing. “Fenris, pin him down with his wrists above his head.”_

_Fenris doesn’t speak, merely acts, and the protest Dorian wants to make turns into an undignified yelp as he’s manhandled into position and held still. He cranes his neck, trying to see where Danarius has gone, and hears the sound of a lock opening, and a drawer sliding out._

_Danarius returns with several lengths of rope draped over his arm. Dorian thrashes, or tries to. He’s very nearly immobile under the elf’s weight. The ropes bind his wrists together, and then to the headboard. Then Danarius has his Fenris hold his legs up so he can tie each ankle to the bedposts at the head of the bed. Dorian tries to shake them off to no avail, hissing every invective he can think of as Fenris stands back up._

_Danarius tuts, and leans down to retrieve something from the floor. He holds it up long enough for Dorian to see what it is- his own smalls- and then shoves it into Dorian’s mouth. Dorian bites down as hard as he can, and Danarius swears._

_[I’d just about forgotten I’d managed to do that much.]_

_He uses his free hand to punch Dorian’s sternum, and wrenches his fingers free when Dorian gasps, taking the smallclothes with him._

_“Fenris,” Danarius orders, sounding annoyed, “Fetch the orange potion from the third shelf in the bathroom cupboard.”_

_“Yes, Master,” Fenris says, in a much deeper voice than Dorian had expected him to have._

_He leaves, and suddenly Dorian has Danarius’ full attention again._

_“All this unpleasantness is entirely unnecessary,” Danarius chides him._

_“I’m so sorry to be an uncooperative kidnapping victim,” Dorian snarls back, with all the contempt he can muster on such short notice. It barely shows- he’s too afraid for it to even be a proper snarl._

_Danarius laughs at him. “My dear boy,” he coos. He holds Dorian’s head still between his hands and bends down to kiss his forehead. His beard tickles Dorian’s nose- he thrashes as much as he can, and only succeeds in rubbing a thigh against the head of Danarius’ flagging erection. It leaves a smear of fluid on his skin that makes him break out into goosepimples. “My dear, sweet, stupid, foolish boy.”_

_He bends down farther to kiss Dorian’s neck. His beard itches._

_“Not your anything,” Dorian says, choking back tears. He will not cry. He will not give him the satisfaction._

_“But you are,” Danarius tells him. “Your parents gave you away just this morning. The ceremony was lovely, if a bit rushed, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear. I couldn’t wait to start the honeymoon, you see.”_

_[Morning. Hm. Well, then. I suppose this was the wedding **afternoon,** rather than the wedding night. It’s hard to tell without any windows. It does seem like the sort of thing that should be happening in the dark, doesn’t it?]_

_“You’re insane,” Dorian realizes. “You’re utterly-”_

_“Master.” Fenris has returned; Danarius takes the potion from him, and Dorian shuts his mouth._

_Danarius arches an eyebrow. “You were saying?”_

_Dorian shakes his head._

_Danarius sighs. “Fenris.”_

_Fenris holds his nose closed as starts prying open his jaw. Within seconds Dorian is spluttering as the potion is forced into his mouth, and then he’s screaming, because it feels like his throat is being scoured with acid. The only sound he makes however, is a faint whistling as air leaves his lungs._

_“As you were, Fenris,” Danarius says, leaving the empty vial on the nightstand. Fenris bows, and resumes his post by the doors._

_Dorian resumes his thrashing then, for all the good it does him- he’s bound too tightly to move more than an inch or two in any direction. Danarius watches for a few moments, touching himself in a lewd and obvious way, and then pushes in once he’s hard enough to penetrate again._

_Dorian’s mind skitters. That’s what that moment feels like. There’s nausea and pain and fear and humiliation but it’s not his, this isn’t him. This isn’t supposed to be him. He can’t process this. It’s not supposed to happen. His brain claws at the inside of his skull rather than taking anything in because this simply cannot be._

_[Maker, you’re young. I was young. We’re young. Whatever.]_

_The moment passes. It’s happening, just as it had happened before he’d regained consciousness. There’s nothing Dorian can do to stop it, because it’s already happening. It’s happening, and there’s no way of undoing this._

_Dorian closes his eyes against the sting of tears. He won’t cry. He **won’t**. _

_[At least I wasn’t a virgin, I suppose. If this had happened even two years or so sooner, when I was still fighting myself and trying to lock everything away, this would have been the entire scope of my sexual experiences. And my personal life right now would be a complete disaster, rather than a slightly mitigated one.]_

_The lack of sight makes the other sensations even sharper, too sharp. His legs are burning from being stretched like this for so long, his hands have turned to ice from the lack of blood flow, and Danarius is simpering about how perfectly tight his boy is and he can’t take it, he can’t do this. He’s about to go crawling out of his skin._

_[Of course, two years before this, Father had no reason to go looking for that damned blood magic ritual.]_

_He opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is Danarius’ smiling face, framed between his bound-open legs. Dorian closes his eyes, and turns his head before opening them again. He’s staring at the wall now. There’s a chip in the stucco that looks like an upside-down duck._

_[I still see that duck when I close my eyes, sometimes.]_

_He focuses on the duck and tries to drown out everything else. It doesn’t entirely work, but when Danarius comes with a long, obscene groan Dorian isn’t weeping. He has that much._

_‘It’s over,’ he thinks. ‘It’s over, he’s done now, he’ll leave.’_

_[No. Sorry, but no. You’ve got twelve bloody years of this ahead of you, and apparently I’m not waking up any time soon.]_

_Danarius grabs Dorian’s cock, and he could swear that he feels his balls try to recede back into his body. Dorian jerks, trying to get away, but the only thing he can do is stare at his captor._

_“I expected someone of your reputation to show a little more enjoyment,” Danarius scolds, and continues to grope him. There is the very real chance that Dorian will be ill. Bile surges up to his teeth, scouring his throat anew._

_Swallowing sounds too loud in his ears, but it’s better than the filth Danarius is saying. He still can’t make a sound. His cock stays flaccid. At this rate, he might never get it up again._

_[You’re going to wish that was the case in a minute.]_

_Eventually, Danarius seems to tire of playing with his dick. Dorian’s relief is short-lived, when his next move is to reach over to the nightstand a pick up a knife._

_How long had that been there? Was it there when he’d tried to run? Could he have grabbed it, and stabbed the bodyguard? Had he missed his chance to escape this?_

_[No. You wouldn’t have gotten that far.]_

_Before he has a chance to properly panic about the fact that Danarius is leaning over him with the knife, the man has nicked the pad of his own thumb and discarded the blade again. He leaves a trail of blood along the underside of Dorian’s cock as he pulls up on it, muttering indistinctly: and Dorian is suddenly lightheaded and painfully hard._

_[That’s entirely unnecessary. He’s going to use that spell a lot- mostly on himself- and contact with the blood he’s casting from isn’t needed to summon an erection.]_

_His arousal feels like a stab in the gut. Dorian shrieks and swears and tries get away, but no sound leaves his mouth and he only succeeds in rocking into Danarius’ grip. He stills, bites down on his lip, and closes his eyes against the sting of tears. This isn’t happening to him. It’s happening to someone else, a complete stranger, and there’s no sense in him crying over it._

_[You’re going to laugh about this later, believe it or not. Well. You’re going to be flippant and sarcastic about it so that the Alexius family will stop looking at you like you might break if they sneeze too suddenly. Felix will cry about it, which will be just awful. As terrible as it is to say, you’re going to learn how to handle this. Danarius is going to think that means he’s broken you, but you’re tougher than he imagines you can be. It’s more livable than it currently seems, once the shock wears off a bit.]_

_Even his orgasm doesn’t feel like it belongs to him._

_[It’s going to be- well. I can’t really say okay. But it gets better. You live to see the end of this. You win, and he dies.]_

_By the time Danarius lets his cock go, he mostly feels cold, chilled to the bone and shivering with it, nearly numb. When Danarius makes a disgusted noise at the sight of Dorian’s come on his hand it sounds like it came from very far away; when he wipes his hand clean on Dorian’s hair, it takes him a minute to realize that he’s been given an opportunity to hurt Danarius._

_Dorian snaps at his hand, trying to bite him again. Danarius laughs when he misses._

_“Still in there, I see,” he remarks, sounding almost fond._

_Dorian glares. ‘I’ll kill you.’ He over-exaggerates his lip movements to make the words obvious. ‘I’ll kill you. I’ll see you dead.’_

_[Actually, over-exaggerating like that makes lip reading more difficult. I’m not sure why I’m bringing that up now, when I can’t even hear myself, but there’s a fun fact for you. Me. Whatever.]_

_Danarius laughs at him again. Dorian has never hated anyone in his life quite like he hates Danarius just now. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever truly hated at all before this moment._

_[I’m not sure why I’m bothering to speak at all, really.]_

_“Is that any way to talk to your husband?” he asks._

_Dorian spits. Some of it even makes its mark, and Danarius’ face becomes a cold mask of fury._

_“Come, Fenris,” he orders, and they leave him there, still tied to the bed with his legs above him, cock smeared with Danarius’ blood and covered in his own filth. He hurts. Maker, everything about him **hurts**._

_[And that’s it, that’s the end, they don’t come back for hours. Can I wake up now?]_

_He still can’t make a sound._

_[How about now? Can I wake up now?]_

_He starts crying._

_[Please. I just want to be somewhere else. Let me wake up. Please.]_

* * *

His first attempt at having Hawke help train him out of the instinct to freeze every time someone grabbed him was not an unmitigated disaster only by virtue of the fact that no one was actually injured. Hawke showed him a few ways to break someone’s hold on him, he went through the motions a few times until she was satisfied he knew how to make them, and on their very first try he folded so hard and fast that they overbalanced. He fell flat on his back with Hawke on top of him, driving the air from his lungs and the sense from his head. The entire world and his memory of it went fuzzy, and the only context he had for what was happening was that he was being pinned to the ground by someone more powerful than he.

“Right. Isn’t there something you should be doing, Dorian?”

He couldn’t have said who he thought was speaking, or what they wanted him to do, but it didn’t matter. There was only one answer he could give.

“I’ll behave,” he gasped out, still dazed and breathless from the fall. “Promise.”

The weight on top of him was gone almost before he finished speaking. After a minute, he cautiously opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbow to see where it had gone. Hawke was crouching some feet away from him, wide-eyed and staring at him. She seemed utterly out of place: he was terrified that someone was forcing him to do something, and Hawke was a mutually exclusive concept with that feeling. The whole moment twisted and took on an air of surrealism, like opening the spoon drawer and finding an entire live donkey inside, and then the progression of events caught up with him.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” he swore, burying his face in the palm of his hand.

“Dorian? Are you back with me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. Not really.”

“Would you like a hug?”

“No.”

“Blanket? Cup of tea?”

Dorian shook his head. “Can I have a moment?”

“Of course. Take as long as you need.”

He stayed, curled in upon himself in Hawke’s courtyard until the mid-afternoon sunshine had given way to evening shadows and the Chantry bells called out the sunset. He got to his feet, gave himself a few moments to work the pins and needles out of his legs, and walked back inside.

Hawke was nowhere to be found- neither was Merrill, or Bodahn and Sandal, or even Ser Woofus. The only person to be found was Orana, who was in the kitchen stirring half a bottle of red into a pot full of something which smelled delicious and very, very familiar.

“Is that ishkembi?” he asked, shocked.

Orana nodded. “Hawke asked if there was a kind of food you liked, and you always seemed happy when we made this dish. You’re expected for dinner, by the way.”

“Well, I’ve arrived early, apparently,” Dorian said. “Do you want a hand with that?”

Orana shook her head. “I’m just waiting for the ladies to return from the market. Messare Hawke said she thought someone was selling lemons earlier, and she’d see if there wasn’t some paprika as well. You can stay here in the kitchen, if you like, though.”

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

Dorian sat at the kitchen table, contemplating. Ishkembi _was_ a favorite of his, but a good portion of his enthusiasm for the soup came from the fact that he hadn’t tried it expecting it to taste good. It was a slave dish: the meat of it came from offal, tongue, and tripe -the cuts the masters of the house wouldn’t want- the broth was made with the drippings from the parts they were eating upstairs and leftover wine, and it was seasoned with the leavings of sauces and garnishes from yesterday’s meals. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him that it was sort of dish you _could_ make intentionally, rather than simply making do with the waste from other people’s meals.

The first time he’d tried ishkembi had been about two and a half years into his time with Danarius. He’d hit upon staying in the kitchens as a good way of staying away from the man some months ago, and there had been a soiree that had ended the day before that he was still recovering from. Eirene had taken pity on him- most of the staff that had managed to survive being Danarius’ property since before the marriage had taken pity on him, by that point. Danarius’ appetites were infamous amongst the slaves, and now that he had a regular outlet for them which he had to at least pretend not to break, people were dying of them with far less frequency. They knew that was down to his place in House Danarius, and they were grateful for it, and guilty about feeling grateful, and they pitied him enough to silence any protests from newer purchases when the cook invited him to sit down with them. He hadn’t expected much, from either the food or the company- had mostly just hoped that Danarius wouldn’t come looking for him- and had been pleasantly surprised by both.

He would have thought the slaves’ food would be as dour as the rest of their lot- once he’d realized that they didn’t eat the same food in the kitchen as they prepared for the dining room, that is. He hadn’t ever thought about it before. If pressed, he might have assumed that they ate the same meal, perhaps minus some of the richer, more expensive dishes.

He’d been thinking about how he’d been as a teenager a lot, these days. It wasn’t hard to see why- that’s the age he’d been the last time he was free. He’d just also been a spoiled tit without the slightest idea how much power he held over other people, so those memories were less something that told him how he should behave now that he was on the other side of thirty and over a decade of slavery, and more a source of profound embarrassment.

“You’ll be okay,” Orana told him suddenly. “It might take time, but you’ll be okay.”

“I’d rather be okay _now_ ,” Dorian huffed. “This is ridiculous. I can set things on fire with the power of my mind!”

Orana shrugged, and returned to stirring the pot.

“I just keep forgetting that’s an option again,” he added.

“The first eight times I had the day off, I got up and made breakfast for Messare Hawke and her family because I didn’t know what else to do,” Orana told him after a moment. “I nearly fainted from hunger once because I spent most of my paycheck on pretty dresses and didn’t have enough money for food- and I was afraid to ask for a loan, or any other kind of help. It took me months to stop shaking for hours after every time any of the ladies of the house would come into the kitchen. About a year after I started to work for Messare Hawke, I dropped a measuring glass on the floor and it shattered. It was the first thing I’d broken, and I was terrified. I cut myself trying to clean it up, and when Hawke found me there was so much blood that she thought I’d been attacked by a malificar. She was furious, and I was too scared to realize that she was angry at the idea that someone had hurt me so I threw myself on the floor at her feet and started apologizing.”

Dorian winced. He could picture that scene with far too much clarity of detail. “How did Hawke react?”

“Disappeared from the room like she was never there before I opened my eyes. Messare Merrill helped me up and cleaned the mess; Healer Anders stopped in and did his questioning thing.”

“Questioning thing?”

“I’m going to come into the room, if that’s alright with you?” Orana said, in a not half bad imitation of Anders’ accent.

Dorian grinned. He knew what she was talking about now- it wasn’t something he bothered with when he was healing any of Hawke’s people, or even most of his patients, but every so often someone skittish and new would stumble into his clinic and he’d start _fussing_. “Is it alright if I sit next to you while I save your life?”

“Can I touch you to stop you from bleeding everywhere?”

“Do I have your permission to use my magic to stop you from exsanguinating?”

He couldn’t quite maintain the accent through the whole five syllables of the last word, and they laughed.

“She gave me the rest of the week off,” Orana told him. “She showed up the next day with scones. She’d baked them herself.”

“Oh?” Dorian was having a difficult time picturing Hawke baking.

Orana leaned down towards him a little, just a hint of a smirk on her face, and for a moment she looked so much like her mother it was breathtaking. “They were _very_ terrible scones,” she whisper, very seriously.

Dorian chuckled.

“It was very silly,” Orana continued. “But it worked. I stopped being afraid.”

Dorian smiled, and resisted the urge to shrug. It wasn’t like she was wrong, per say, but…

Maker, he just wanted this part of his life to be over. Was that really too much to ask, for him to be able to cease all the cringing and pleading and Void-taken _submission_ he’d learned to do as Danarius’ Dorian? Couldn’t he just stop, and put it away now that it was of no use? Couldn’t it just end?

From the sound of things, no, it couldn’t.

He wasn’t ready to accept that. Not just yet.

Eventually Hawke and Merrill returned with Ser Woofus in tow, having bought a half-dozen limes in place of lemons, and an ounce of cumin instead of paprika. That was alright, though: ishkembi was the sort of meal you were supposed to improvise with.

* * *

The things was, sometimes he felt silly merely for wanting things to get better in the first place.

His life as it was now was pretty good. He didn’t even mean in comparison to how things were with Danarius-there were beggars in Darktown with better lives than that- or because he had honestly stopped expecting to survive the man. He meant that by almost every objective measure, his life was pretty good: even with the nightmares, his casting problem, the sense of impending doom hanging over Kirkwall, and the chill of autumn permeating the air, he enjoyed the life he had now and would be hard-pressed to give it up.

(“There was ice on my window this morning,” Dorian told Fenris during one of their meals together. It had been at that place run by the Tal-Vashoth woman from Nevarra, who kept swearing in her oddly-accented Qunlat with enough volume to be heard from the bar. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“It’s called frost,” Fenris corrected him. “That will happen more often, as we approach the end of the year. There might even be snow.”

“Snow,” Dorian repeated, trying to imagine it. “I’ve never actually seen snow in real life- just in pictures.”

“It’s very cold.”

“Oh. Well, then. Hopefully we won’t have _too_ much snow. Just enough for me to be able to say that I’ve seen it would be nice, though. ”)

In purely materialistic terms, he was spoiled. He had a roof over his head: he lived in a private suite of a nice hotel with running water, room service, and a good reputation. He didn’t want for books or clothes or anything else of that nature, and even if he did, he had inherited more than enough money from his owner to provide for himself there- inherited from his husband, from Danarius.

(He’d been experimenting with referring to Danarius as his owner, rather than his husband. It wasn’t something he’d really done in Tevinter, where he was expected to pay lip service to their marriage more often than not and referring to Danarius as ‘Master’ was a weapon of last resort. None of those reasons held any value down here in Kirkwall after Danarius’ death, however: in most cases, it felt more honest to refer to him as such, and when it came to discussing matters with people questioning his place with Hawke’s merry band of adventurers it certainly cut to the quick. But when it came to the matter of his inheritance, ‘husband’ seemed like the better fit. If his enslavement had relied more on legality and less on blackmail and brute force, he would likely be squatting in the Hanged Man with Varric, with Fenris left in a still-moldering mansion and everyone else still enslaved in Tevinter. Even he and Fenris would still be considered property under Tevinter law. But because he’d been Danarius’ equal and husband in the eyes of the law, he now controlled a large fortune, and had possessed the ability to free the others who didn’t have the benefits of his rank.)

He ate well, spectacularly well, in ways that had nothing to do with his wealth or the room service. There were cheap greasy meals at The Hanged Man with Varric and Isabela over drinks or a game of Wicked Grace. There were hot Tevinter dishes at the Hawke estate, where he and Orana laughed as Hawke and Merrill turned beet red and flapped their arms like distressed albatrosses at the spices. There were late-evening dinners with Fenris, more often than not- they seemed to be hitting every halfway decent restaurant in Hightown. Every so often he would wake up early and meet Sebastian outside the Chantry with hot tea and pastries.

It went beyond the material, even. He had friends here: good friends, all in some combination of clever, funny, steady, and kind, and so achingly sincere about it that he found himself having to strike bizarre lines such as ‘I have found your people’ from his letters to Felix.

Things with his friends in Tevinter were continuing to go on in Tevinter without him. Well, Felix and the other members of House Alexius were staying out of it, working as part of an envoy to Hossberg to strengthen trade with the Anderfels.

(‘Should you have the chance to go to Weisshaupt, there’s a junior warden there called Bethany Hawke,’ Dorian wrote to him. ‘Yes, as in Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, though I wouldn’t lead with that if I were you. If you see her, tell her that her sister misses her and keeps trying to use Ander words incorrectly. She might also be interested to know that Danarius is dead, seeing as she and Fenris apparently got along back in the day.’

‘Warden Hawke is a remarkable woman. I greatly enjoy her company, and Mother and Father approve of her spirit.’ That was Felix’s eventual reply, which… was not a sentiment he knew how to convey to Hawke.)

He heard from Mae most often, as she wrote on behalf of Eirene, was the most prominent member of their group of reform-minded Alti, and he had entrusted her with dealing with the things he needed from the Solas estate for his research, like she had entrusted him with feeding her gossip about Varric in return. She was having a time of things back home- Danarius had cobbled together so many political alliances with blackmail and now-empty promises that his death had plunged the Magisterium nearly into a state of civil war.

(‘My political enemies have taken to tripping over themselves as they rush to assassinate each other for me,’ was how Mae herself put it. ‘It’s terribly amusing to watch, though I must admit, I’m anxious to begin picking over the carnage they’re leaving behind.’

‘Opportunistic vulture,’ Dorian replied, but he meant it fondly.)

Rilienus was too busy dealing with the politics of the situation to write him proper letters- quite unwillingly, but Radonis had only narrowly defeated his father in the last assassination-provoked bid for the seat of Archon, so it was unavoidable that he would get caught in the melee. Instead, he sent Dorian clippings from news bulletins- the student-run weekly from the Circle of Vyrantium, the official _avvisi_ from the Magisterium, the Ambassadoria, and the Publicanium, various editorials from various political factions- with his commentary scrawled in the margins.

(‘Send alcohol,’ he scribbled in the margins of one detailing the number of Soporati dead in riots taking place in Carastes. ‘I want to kill my father.’

On Hawke’s suggestion, Dorian sent Rilienus some Chasind Sack Mead, and sent Mae an only slightly panicked inquiry about his well being.

‘I didn’t mean you should send me alcohol I could kill my father with,’ Rilienus protested. ‘I wasn’t even being serious about wanting either of those things. What I really want is a good solid six hours of sleep.’

‘His father has had the importance of Rilienus’ safety impressed upon him’ Mae assured him. ‘And I have some of my own people watching over him besides.’)

There were other letters, of course, mostly of the formal sort: rote invitations to whatever parties from House La-Di-Fucking-Da to House Danarius, condolences for the loss of his husband from people he had never even met. He ended up burning most of them, though some contained interesting tidbits of information about slaving operations in Kirkwall that he passed along to Aveline via the guards whose beat often took them right outside the Theoxenia.

(There were also two letters from his parents, which he kept unopened in the farthest corner of his desk. At first, it was merely because he could neither bring himself to read them nor throw them away; now, it was because they made too perfect a metaphor for his relationship with his family.)

Things in Kirkwall continued to go on in Kirkwall with him. Tensions between mage sympathizers and Templar supporters continued to grow, flaring into out and out violence here and there. Dorian tried to stay out of it, but it was impossible: it permeated every level of society, and as a mage he was caught very much in the middle of it.

(He and Fenris were refused service at a restaurant once. At first Dorian presumed that it was because Fenris was an elf, and he was utterly prepared to bring Hawke down upon the manager if he had to. He didn’t really know how to respond to the fact that the problem was that Dorian was ‘a known mage’. Neither did Fenris. In the end they took their business to The Hanged Man, where, naturally, they thought of all sorts of witty retorts it was too late to say.)

He wasn’t without insulation, though. He was a friend of Hawke’s; the magister’s birthright that allowed him access to Danarius’ funds also allowed him to walk around freely with his staff; and he worked often enough with the guard that he had their respect, even their trust. He often infiltrated slaving operations ahead of the guard nowadays- it was to the point where the slavers were beginning to catch on to the fact that there was some kind of mole at their soirees, but they had only their suspicions as to where the information was coming from, and apparently couldn’t begin to guess that his motivation was doing the right thing.

(“ _Rattus_ ,” hissed one of the slavers- a mundane son of House Agorian who had been kicked out the Imperial Templars, Dorian was fairly certain- at Lia while the arrests were being processed at the Viscount’s Keep. Dorian was throwing one of the daggers Hawke had lent him before he could consider the wisdom of the action. The hilt hit the man squarely between the eyes and he slumped into a heap on the floor.

“Whoops,” he said, as Lia bent to retrieve the blade for him. “I didn’t actually mean to do that. Clumsy me.”

“What did you mean to do?” she asked.

“Given the way that term can be translated into Trade?” Dorian improvised, seeing as he hadn’t gotten quite as far as intentions before acting. “I was rather hoping to have knifed him in the ear.”

Aveline had not been impressed by either his actions or his wit, but the rank and file of the guard seemed to soften considerably to him after that. Even the incessant questioning of ‘But aren’t you a magister?’ turned less into a way of needling him, and more a rite of passage for new recruits.

Fenris, sadly, was just as impressed by his decisions as Aveline. He kept reaching over to flick Dorian’s ear as he told that story.)

His work with Hawke progressed, slowly. Very slowly, like a snail fighting its way against the flow of molasses. It had been such a long time since ‘don’t touch me’ had been a hill he was willing to die on, after all. His next five tries ended in the same disaster as the first, and the only improvements made had nothing to do with him. Hawke would check to make sure he knew where he was and then leave immediately: a blanket found its wall into the courtyard, draped over the back of a lounge chair Hawke appeared to have bought for the express purpose of draping a blanket over. Orana would appear after an hour with a cup of strong, hot tea and a block of caramel- a close imitation of the tea service her mother would provide to those who’d been the subject of Danarius’ focus and weren’t quite in their own skin as a result. It wasn’t quite the same, as the base of the tea was black rather than red- you couldn’t get red tea down here, Dorian had tried and the shop purveyor had looked at him as though he was mad- and the caffeine mitigated the soothing effect somewhat. Still, all the spices- cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, pimento, carob, cayenne, cloves- were there in the blend, and the act of holding the tea in his mouth until it had melted the pinched off bit of caramel on his tongue was grounding in and of itself.

(“Stay, please,” he asked Orana, on his fourth go-around. “I got a letter from Mae the other day concerning your mother, and we should discuss things.”

Orana sat, and they passed the tea and caramel between them discussing the relative merits and demerits of Orana joining her mother in Mae’s employ in Tevinter, or Eirene coming to work in Kirkwall. While Kirkwall is undoubtedly a friendlier place to be an elf, it was also more politically volatile. Yes, magisters were killing each other right and left back home, but he knew better than to expect that to have any lasting change on how most people in Tevinter lived, and as long as Mae was alive she would make sure her people’s lives were a safe and stable as possible. He was more sensitive than most to the dangers of the presumption of safety, but at the same time, he had difficulty imagining Mae dead. Kirkwall, meanwhile, he has no trouble picturing strewn with dead bodies and burning. That might very well be next Tuesday, the way things were going.

When he left the Hawke estate that night, he felt accomplished. It didn’t stop him from breaking down again next time, but he fancied that he recovered quicker after that.)

One their sixth try, Hawke returned to their dagger-throwing practice as a warm up. He wasn’t sure if word of what happened at the Keep reached her (probably) or if it was purely a matter of intuition, but he stopped panicking so quickly when they tried that. Something about drilling with weaponry made it easier to remember that he should be fighting, and he lasted longer before panicking. Soon, panicking didn’t mean blindly submitting, even.

(“What happened to your face?” Fenris demanded.

“I’ve officially reached the point where panicking means thrashing, rather than just laying there like a dead fish,” he announced, unable to keep the smile from his face even though it was making his lip bleed again.

“Congratulations?” Fenris asked.

“You should see Hawke,” Dorian confided. “I’m quite honestly terrified that Merrill will come after me for it, so I hope you picked some place nice for us to eat tonight. It may very well be my last meal.”)

Of course, that meant setting aside their drinking game for the time being, much to Isabela’s disappointment. She started becoming a regular presence at their practices, joining Hawke in teaching him how to use daggers and catcalling their grappling sessions, which oddly enough, made it much easier to get through them without forgetting where he was.

(“You do understand, this is the least likely wrestling to end in sexytimes in the history of both wrestling and sexytimes?” Hawke asked her.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view,” Isabela replied.

“She has a point, Hawke,” Dorian added. “We are very attractive people.”)

He liked Isabela, even though he couldn’t help but be jealous of her, just a little. Her husband had been her owner too, and now here she stood on the other end of it all: fierce, fearless, and indomitable. As much as she was far too feminine for his tastes, he could see what had attracted Fenris to her. He still wasn’t sure what the nature of their relationship was, beyond the fact that they cared for one another and were apparently non-exclusive, but it seemed to him that Fenris could hardly have chosen better. They appeared well-suited to each other, in ways Dorian had few examples to compare: Gereon and Aurora, Maevaris and Thorold, Eirene and Pantalaimon, and now Aveline and Donnic, and Hawke and Merrill. There was a dearth of affectionate couples in Tevinter, to the point where his marriage to Danarius was almost more an extreme of the norm than a deviation from it.

But he didn’t want to think about Danarius. He wanted to think about games of Wicked Grace, about the shame his work with the city guard would bring upon House Pavus when word got back to his parents, about how his afternoon lessons with Hawke were growing less and less daunting, about the fruits his research would eventually bring about.

(“What is it you are researching?” Fenris asked. “Are you still trying to undo the damage done by the collar, or is it something else?”

“It’s complicated,” Dorian said, because the honest answer was ‘you’ and that was unlikely to be well-received.

Unfortunately, Fenris wasn’t satisfied with his evasion either. “Complicated how?”

Dorian shrugged.

“It is not blood magic, I take it,” Fenris said.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , no,” Dorian told. It was on the tip of his tongue to protest that Fenris knew him better than that, but… well. There was a reason they were having this conversation outside a bistro rather than back at the mansion. It was going to be a process, winning Fenris’ trust, and he wasn’t half through it yet. “As a matter of fact, I’m trying to find a way to do something normally done with blood magic without using any magic at all.”)

The books Mae sent him were from the Solas estate, an isolated place, the only one of House Danarius’ holdings that was a rusticana rather than an urbanica. It was also the sight of the laboratory Danarius had branded Fenris in, among other similar innovations recreated from the wreckage of Old Arlathan. That’s what those books were about, the Lyrium Warriors who must have given the Ancient Tevinter Empire pause. Elvhen was a dense, semi-agglutinative language, and he was only able to pull two pieces of information from the text on his own: that there was a way to guard against the total amnesia Fenris had suffered which Danarius had neglected to use, and without proper maintenance, Fenris’ markings would begin to poison him.

His first thought, when he’d asked for those books, was that there might be some way of undoing Fenris’ memory loss. He still hoped that might be the case, but that was a far secondary goal to stopping Fenris from suffering a lingering death as a result of his brands. Now his research had an edge of urgency to it. He watched Fenris closely for any sign of lyrium poisoning: dullness of memory, lack of attention, slowness of thought. He wasn’t sure whether or not he’d even be able to tell. Fenris had always been sharp, astute: focused and observant in ways few beings could match. He could be showing signs of poisoning and still be head and shoulders above most people in that regard. The only symptoms he noticed were Fenris’ sensitivity to magic- the way they made his markings ache. It was, from what he could tell, a very early symptom, and considering it had been a good decade since Danarius could perform any kind of upkeep on them, Dorian was cautiously optimistic that if any damage had been done, it could be reversed.

(Paranoia was also a symptom of lyrium poisoning- could that be why his understandable distrust of magisters had become a bewildering fear of all mages, including Dorian? He couldn’t consider it without hoping, and couldn’t hope without being utterly disgusted with himself, so he ignored that possibility as much as he could.)

He enlisted Merrill’s help with finding a cure. In the Imperium, she would be considered a blood mage in the same way Dorian would be considered a healer for his skill in summoning pain-numbing wisps, but honestly, it wasn’t like that didn’t make her the very best sort of blood mage. The differences between how she casted and viewed her blood spells and how things were done back home were astonishing, but he rather thought that was a good thing. The original Lyrium Warriors were of Elvhenan, just as Merrill was. Perhaps she might even notice something Danarius himself had overlooked.

(“You can’t tell Hawke,” he said. “We’re not doing anything wrong, but I don’t know how to explain this to Fenris yet, and Hawke…”

“Hawke doesn’t believe in keeping things from friends,” Merrill finished for him. “Don’t worry, _lethallin_. It’ll be our secret until we figure things out. Like a surprise party!”)

He liked Merrill, too. She was clever, kind, curious, and so utterly enamored with Hawke that Dorian occasionally had to avert his eyes. He couldn’t have asked for a better partner when it came to his research, though they sometimes had trouble communicating. Even when he showed up on her doorstep in the alienage unannounced, she always let him in, and only sometimes on those nights did they speak only of her own work in restoring the Eluvian.

He generally spent the night in the alienage, when he and Merrill were working together. He would leave when the gates opened at dawn, and head directly back to the Theoxenia if he was tired. More often than not, though, their work energized him, and he would stop into the bakery outside the Chantry courtyard instead.

(That the early-bird fare of the bakeries in Kirkwall regularly included a hot drink you were supposed to dip your pastries in had been a revelation. A delicious revelation Dorian had embraced with great enthusiasm.)

The baker and his assistants had started recognizing Dorian, and there were days now where his regular order (two cups of strong breakfast tea, an apple fitter for himself and a cheese kringle for Sebastian) was waiting for him before he made it to the counter. He snatched his order away, leaving behind his thanks and enough coin to cover the expense and a tip, and walked over to the Chantry, where he lurked in the back of morning services. Sebastian would come find him when they were finished.

Sebastian was a man a little too used to denying himself. In another life, where Sebastian was even slightly inclined and Dorian had spent his youth at far greater liberty, he would have brought him to utter ruination. As it was, things were easy between them. It was easy to let Sebastian tell him of his Chantry and its philosophies, easy to fluster the man with counterarguments, easy to enjoy to sight of his flushed face, and his smile.

Anders was not easy. Partially this was because he was Dorian’s healer, and therefore someone Dorian could blame for the way his spells continued to be difficult and how he was trapped in his memories when he slept. It wasn’t fair, but sometimes he got so frustrated with himself that he couldn’t help but lash out. Anders mostly took it in stride, but of course, the other big problem was that he was only Anders most of the time. Sometimes, he was Justice- sometimes he was both, he was Vengeance. It was jarring to think himself speaking to one only for another to react. He wasn’t sure how the others managed it.

(“The glowing eyes and slightly maniacal baritone give it away every time,” Varric said flippantly when he asked.

Which, no, they didn’t, this was a serious question he wanted a serious answer to, but that wasn’t something Dorian had actually wanted to say, so he’d let the matter drop and hadn’t brought it up again.)

Still, he was learning. And there were some things that stayed the same no matter which version of the healer he was speaking to: a desire to heal the sick, protect the needy, and free the Southern mages from their Templar-run Circles. Those were all things Dorian would like to do as well, or see done, at least, so there wasn’t any real need to create conflict.

(He’d had to break the news that foreign mages who made it to Tevinter were often ‘indentured’ to a magister or the Imperial Army to the healer gently, and nervously.

“Fenris told me,” was the despondent reply. “I didn’t want to believe him.”

“That does seem to be a bit of a running theme,” Dorian pointed out.)

In all honesty, half the time he was in the clinic getting refills on the various types of sleeping draughts they were hoping might do something for him and haranguing Anders for answers to his problems the man didn’t even possess, the clinic had other things going on in it. Anders was a healer in Darktown who charged no fees, and so long as the lantern outside his door was lit, people weren’t shy about their need of him. There were Darktown’s beggars, cutpurses, and other denizens, members of the Coterie and a smuggling group run by an ex-associate of Hawke’s, and miners- less of those last ones than there used to be, especially since Hawke now had complete ownership of the Bone Pits, but mining was never a safe profession.

And there were prostitutes, of course: freelance workers, most often, but also some from the Rose. Years of experience made Dorian almost handy with the kinds of injuries often sustained by those people- and with those who came to Anders after they were raped, too.

(Some of it was firsthand experience, of course, but not all. It had been Danarius’ way to come home every few months with a pretty young thing to take into his bed- mostly new purchases of his, but a few were free, and all too terrified of the man to be obvious about their unwillingness to be fucked by him. That normally got Dorian a few nights off- a week, even, if the person in question was a woman. Nights off were things he coveted, nearly sick with guilt and relief. It was terrible of him, but he never tried to stop it, and even if he could have brought himself to try and ward Danarius off of them and onto himself, he knew in his bones that he wouldn’t have succeeded. He couldn’t just do _nothing_ , though, so he learned to help them pick up some of the pieces once Danarius was finished with them instead.)

He saw Jethann often: even when the elf wasn’t hurt himself, he often walked his fellow prostitutes to the clinic and back. Dorian was always happy to see Jethann, especially when he was uninjured. He was a delight to match wits with, and between the two of them they could make anyone laugh, even Vengeance.

(They had a patter down, even, for when Jethann was escorting someone new in:

“Hi! I’m Dorian.”

“He’s from Tevinter.”

“But I’m not a magister.”

“Or an apostate.”

“Or a blood mage.”

“Or a healer.”

“I’m a better healer than you, and now that we’ve established that I’m the least threatening kind of mage, what brings you to the clinic?”)

“And how are things going, Flashfire?” Varric would ask whenever they would meet, which was often and in all sorts of places. He was as much to glue that held their merry band of adventurers together as Hawke was.

“Pretty well,” he would answer, because it was the truth. “If I have one complaint its-” and then he would talk about how the bakery had been out of apple fritters that morning, or he’d torn the knee of his trousers open sparring with Hawke, or Isabela had cheated outrageously during their last game of cards and he couldn’t work out how. Minor things- good problems to be having, all in all.

Because objectively speaking his life was good. He had food, shelter, and financial security. He had a fascinating and worthwhile research project he could work on with an able partner, he had his equally worthy work with the guard to beat back the slavers nesting in Kirkwall, and he had the odd run with Hawke and the rest of their group just in case there was ever any danger of his becoming bored. He had friends to assure him he never had to set foot in Tevinter again, and friends who would keep him safe here in Kirkwall, and friends who helped when he had bad days, even if they weren’t able to tell when those days were. He was free, Danarius was dead, no one would ever make him have any kind of contact with his family again, and almost every night now Fenris would take him out to eat and then walk him all the way back to the lobby of his hotel, food and wine and companionship more than sufficient to ward off the encroaching autumn chill.

And sometimes he just felt so silly for wanting more.

* * *

_It’s a sunny spring day: the sun is hot, but there’s a steady breeze blowing in from the sea to cool the sweat on his body. The fourth time he ends up knocked flat on his back on the training grounds, he’s half-tempted to lie there and just enjoy the effect- he’d be entirely tempted, if the training grounds were less populated than they are. Unfortunately, there are rather a lot of people around, so he merely glares up at Siesyll as the elf gestures down at him._

_[Is this… am I reliving a day in which nothing uncommonly horrid happened to me?]_

_“You need to stop letting me use your staff to flip you, whore,” is everyone’s best guess at what those gestures mean. Siesyll is the only former Fog Warrior in Danarius’ possession at present, and like many captured Fog Warriors, he’d cut out his own tongue rather than betray his people. That means that everyone can only guess at what he’s trying to communicate most of the time._

_[Fenris might actually know, from his time with the Fog Warriors. There’s no good way to ask, though.]_

_“ **Ceveto tu in cornibus Qunari** ,” Dorian replies as he gets to his feet, with a two-fingered gesture of his own. There are days when he could really dislike Siesyll and his patently transparent manipulations, but even then, he can’t deny the motivational effect. _

_“And what’s that mean?” asks Taeodor with a laugh. The man’s Fereldan, one of the elves taken from the Denerim alienage during the Blight. As a **non-contracti** , he’d originally been put to work on various infrastructure projects under the auspices of assorted unscrupulous public servants before being purchased for use in Danarius’ blood magic, but Danarius had liked the look of him and changed his mind about how to use him. There’d been enough of him left after Danarius had tired of him to realize that if he wanted to keep breathing he had to make himself useful in some other way, so here he is, on the training grounds, showing off with his bow and learning to speak better Tevene. _

_[He got lucky. He hid the limp well enough to become a groundskeeper on the Solas estate, managed to avoid being bled to death, and then used his manumission payment to arrange for his passage back home two months ago. The other Fereldans didn’t even last the year before Danarius decided they were more valuable in pieces in his laboratory. What were their names? Valora and Adwen? I wonder if they have family still living in Denerim. I wonder if Taeodor’s checked.]_

_“Go fuck yourself on a Qunari’s horns,” Dorian translates._

_[Inexactly, but then Trade doesn’t really have a succinct way of telling you to **enjoy** fucking yourself in the arse on something like Tevene does. And even if it did, there wouldn’t be the same level of insult implied. What was the phrase Isabela used the other day? Butt sex is fun sex? I could feel an entire mausoleum full of former members of House Pavus decrying the fact that I heard that, let alone that I agreed.]_

_“Such language,” scolds an unfortunately familiar voice from behind him._

_[Ah, I spoke too soon. There’s nothing about you that isn’t uncommonly horrid, is there Magister Erimond?]_

_“Do you kiss your husband with that mouth?” Erimond continues._

_[Ha.]_

_He says it with the sickening emphasis on the word ‘husband’ that only exists when it’s said by people who know and admire what Danarius is doing to him. There’s a quip on the tip of Dorian’s tongue about his wit matching his originality, but before he can say it there’s a sudden hush on the training ground, and everyone save Erimond, his apprentices, and Dorian gets on their knees. Danarius has arrived, followed by the freshest crop of his admiring little myrmidons._

_“Oh, he does more than that,” he tells Erimond._

_Right: message received. Dorian kneels as well, silently cursing the way he can still feel humiliated enough by this to blush._

_Danarius chuckles, and tangles his fingers in Dorian’s hair._

_“Really? Do tell,” Erimond purrs, like Danarius hasn’t already had Dorian suck him off in front of the man- like his first response to the sight hadn’t been to ask if he could get a blowjob when Danarius was finished using him._

_“I’m sure Dorian wouldn’t mind showing you after dinner,” Danarius replies. “Isn’t that right, my boy?”_

_“Of course, darling,” Dorian agrees, a little bit proud of the way he sounds airy and light, even though his gut twists like it’s full of snakes._

_Danarius keeps his hand in Dorian’s hair as he and Erimond discuss their business of being horrible people doing horrible things- specifically, Erimond is a guest of Danarius’ as he arranges for a duel to be fought with House Achaicus that’s actually a cover for placing one of Magister Achaicus’ apprentices under a blood thrall- and then conversation turns back to the slaves Danarius owns._

_It’s a sickeningly familiar topic, practically pre-scripted. Dorian could probably recite the words in his sleep._

_[“Siesyll’s a genuine Fog Warrior. I purchased him before the craze started, back when you could still buy slaves on Seheron- they’re so difficult to find these days, between the Qunari and the market being absolutely flooded with counterfeits.” Yes, I can literally recite them in my sleep. Good to know!]_

_He lets his attention drift towards Danarius’ myrmidons- all apprenticed to him, but he hasn’t taken on a proper apprentice since Hadriana left. It’s been months since she last contacted them, almost a year since she left, and word has gotten around that the position is open again, which means that the group’s members change frequently as they kill each other off competing for it._

_Right now, there are four of them: Sophronia, Zhirair, Atanas, and Varania. Three of them are humans- Atanas is even from an Altus family- but if he were allowed money, he’d put it on the elf being the victor._

_[And I’d be right.]_

_Varania is Fenris’ sister, after all. She’s the one who can bring Danarius’ little wolf back to heel._

_[She tried, at least. And she failed. You know, I can remember being worried that Hawke would allow Fenris to be taken back. Of course, I also half-thought Merrill had been forced into her bed somehow. It seems so strange, that I would have ever thought that. Hawke would sooner cut off her own arm.]_

_He studies her. She has the same Seheron look as Siesyll- the one that Danarius had made so popular when he spread word of Fenris’ origins: green eyes, red hair, aquiline noise, and wiry build, even if her skin tone is on the pale end of things._

_[And getting paler, I think. I wonder if she bleaches? Wasn’t that some kind of fashion amongst the Laetans a few years ago? Paler skin, to show you didn’t need to work outside?]_

_The branding process had leeched the color from Fenris’ hair long before Dorian had met him. He tries to imagine it: a younger, ginger Fenris with no markings. Even with his sister standing before him, it remains beyond his grasp._

_[I wonder if Fenris tried that, when they met in The Hanged Man. Did he look at her and try to picture himself when they were a family together?]_

_He can’t help but pity Varania a little, even as he’s repulsed by her actions. She reminds him of his father in a way: like Father, she’s put her head in the sand when it comes to Danarius and is now oblivious to how deeply she’s being manipulated by him, even as she’s not totally unaware._

_Dorian’s present, sometimes, when they compose her letters to Fenris. He isn’t sure why Danarius does that- it’s not as though he’s asked for Dorian’s input, so he mostly spends that time sitting there, looking pretty and trying not to show how invested he is in the whole thing._

_[He was gauging my reaction, probably. He wouldn’t have trusted me to stay on my own while he went to Kirkwall, but he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t sabotage things with Fenris. Or wouldn’t give away the surprise, at least.]_

_Through those meetings, Dorian has listened as Danarius weaved his spell over her: she seems utterly convinced now that Fenris had abandoned her and her mother when he had them freed, and that Danarius truly cares for Fenris and wants him returned safely._

_“I worry about Fenris the same way I’d worry about my husband, were he away from me for so long,” were the exact words Danarius had used._

_Dorian looks up at Varania now and marvels at the mental gymnastics she must surely be doing to make it all fit._

_“Of course, Dorian loves to show off,” Danarius says._

_Dorian blinks, wondering what exactly he’s meant to be showing off._

_“I’m sure he and Siesyll would greatly enjoy giving us a demonstration of what he’s learned,” he continues. “Why don’t we retire to the Arlathan Room? There should be plenty of space for them to spar there. I’ll have one of the kitchen staff come with refreshments.”_

_“That sounds delightful.”_

_Danarius leads the way, he and Erimond continuing to chat amiably. The apprentices trail after them, followed by Dorian and Siesyll. Behind them the other slaves stand, and resume their practice._

_The Arlathan Room is an indoor arboretum, containing plants from Arlathan forest, appropriately enough. Given the height of the forest, there aren’t actual living trees in the arboretum, but rather cuttings of wood enchanted to support the plant life that exists at various heights: vines which only grow around the lower part of the tree trunks, flowers that only bloom at the top of canopies, and everything in between._

_There’s a gazebo overlooking a clearing the Arlathan Room. Danarius and Erimond settle in on the seats there, followed by their apprentices. Dorian and Siesyll remain standing in the clearing._

_“Is there anything in particular you’d like to see, husband?” Dorian asks._

_“You, shirtless,” Danarius says in an uncanny impression of jovial good humor. “Other than that, proceed as normal.”_

_Danarius had left a love bite over his left nipple that morning, and hadn’t allowed him to have it healed. Dorian’s mostly managed to ignore the bruise, but he can feel everyone staring at it as he drapes his vest over the gazebo railing, and that makes the ache flare up again._

_Siesyll bows at the gazebo, making the gesture that ostensibly means ‘master’. It involves the same three-fingered waggle that’s used in ‘whore’, though, so Dorian likes to entertain himself by imagining that he’s been secretly calling Danarius ‘pimp’ all these years._

_[I really wish I knew how to ask Fenris about that. Not only might he know, but he would probably find the whole idea rather funny.]_

_Even with their audience, Siesyll doesn’t go easy on him, and he’s flat on his back within a minute. Dorian gets back to his feet, and lasts perhaps another half a minute before ending up right back on the ground._

_“Focus on me,” Siesyll signs. “Focus on the fight.”_

_“What’s he saying?” Erimond asks._

_“That I’m distracted,” Dorian answers when Danarius doesn’t._

_Erimond laughs. “I don’t see why- you’re the one who’s shirtless, after all.”_

_Dorian declines to comment, and tries to follow Siesyll’s advice._

_[It’s funny- I always thought I was terrible at using my staff as a physical weapon. Siesyll never did stop being able to knock me to the ground within minutes, even if I was lasting more like five minutes when we left for Kirkwall. But I’ve managed pretty well with it, somehow. I suppose I might be terrible at it, but seeing as no one in Kirkwall is familiar with the technique it takes them by surprise.]_

_It takes Danarius nearly an hour to tire of watching someone else beat Dorian repeatedly into the ground. He sends Siesyll away: Dorian is to freshen up and then join them on the gazebo as though Danarius hasn’t been speaking above him and ordering him around all afternoon- as though he doesn’t have Dorian in a collar._

_[According to Mae, some of the others told her that Siesyll took the manumission payment and hired a smuggler to bring him back to Seheron, the crazy old bastard.]_

_Still, he would certainly like a few moments to himself. He smiles as he leaves, and once he reaches the caldarium he gives himself five minutes to let the heat sooth some of his aches and just not think, watching the minute-glasses turn in their enchanted settings from under one partially-open eyelid._

_It’s a mistake. When his five minutes are up, he doesn’t want to move._

_He could stay here for a time, potentially. Danarius hadn’t specified how long he has to freshen up. He’s been in a good enough mood of late that he might find the excuse amusing, rather than a premise to torture him._

_Of course, there’s also the possibility that by freshen up he meant ‘freshen up’ and when Dorian returns to the Arlathan Room there’ll be an orgy waiting for him._

_He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Sometimes it seems just too unfair: that not only does he have the sort of life where he can expect to be bent over and fucked at the snap of Danarius’ fingers, but he has the sort of life where it can be hard to tell whether he should expect that, or should expect to sit, discuss his work with Gereon and gossip with their guests like he’s their equal._

_[Like life was ever fair.]_

_He takes another deep breath, and then stands. He should prepare for the worst, and there’s oil back in the tepidarium._

* * *

Dorian’s first meeting with Hawke’s infamous Uncle Gamlen largely involved the man glowering at him from across his hovel. Dorian sparred a moment or two to try and puzzle out what it was the man found objectionable about him, before focusing his attentions on trying to make their part of whatever scheme it was Charade’s friends had going was a little less crazy than what Hawke and her cousin were currently trying to pull off. Gamlen looked an awful lot like Hawke: Charade didn’t have any of the same appearance, but the family resemblance came out in different ways, he supposed.

“Just make sure your handsome apostate friend doesn’t get any ideas,” Gamlen warned Hawke once they had an almost reasonable approximation of a plan in place, while looking directly at him. “We had enough trouble with your father.”

Charade rolled her eyes: Dorian was about to correct him about the apostate thing, when Hawke laughed. “You don’t have to worry about Charade’s virtue with Dorian, he’s no less gay than I am.”

‘Gay’ was a term Dorian only knew as an archaic way of saying happy, so he was very confused until Charade rolled her eyes again and chimed in with “You don’t have to worry about my virtue at all, even with men who are disinterested.”

“Well? Are you?” Gamlen demanded of him, ignoring his relatives for the moment.

“I prefer men, if that’s what you mean,” Dorian confirmed.

“Prefer?”

“It’s a very strong preference which precludes all other possibilities,” Dorian told him. “And while we’re on the subject, I’m not an apostate. I am quite handsome though, thank you for noticing.”

“And modest too,” Hawke teased.

“I know my strengths,” Dorian replied.

Gamlen rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath Dorian couldn’t quite make out.

“Dorian, Aveline, Varric…this is like, the least virtue-threatening group of my friends possible, Uncle,” Hawke continued. “Calm your tits.”

Gamlen sighed. “I’m beginning to regret allowing you to use my home as a base of operations,” he said.

“You’re seven years too late for that,” Hawke told him.

Somehow or another this lead to him standing back to back with Aveline in between waves of corpses, asking her advice on personal matters.

“Do you think Fenris would enjoy going to a wine-tasting?” he asked.

“What,” was her completely reasonable reply.

“You know how I keep getting form letters on behalf of House Danarius?” he checked. “Mainly they’re either condolences for Danarius’ loss, or invitations to various social gatherings. One of the most recent ones is for a wine-tasting at Demesne Pellinar, and that one actually sounds like a tempting prospect.”

“So you’re thinking of bringing Fenris with you?”

“I’m thinking of going if it’s something Fenris would want to do,” Dorian replied. “We’ve been eating out a lot, and some of those places are downright fancy, so I suppose it’s not really that far outside of his normal milieu. And there will be alcohol, and lots of it. On the other hand, it’s some hours away from Kirkwall, so if someone wants to make an issue out of our presence, we’re a bit stuck. I don’t know, what do you think?”

“I think Fenris would probably like for you to ask him,” Aveline said.

“I’m getting to that!” Dorian protested.

“Not very quickly, from the looks of things,” Aveline pointed out.

“Well I’m hardly going to run up to Hightown and start banging on his door in the middle of the night, covered in gore, to invite him wine-tasting,” Dorian retorted.

“Why not?”

“…I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start with whatever’s closest to why you’re asking _me_ if you should ask Fenris to go with you,” Aveline suggested.

“Well you’ve known him longer.”

“I- thought you knew him from before he escaped Tevinter?” Aveline asked.

“I did, but… it’s different. You’ve known him as his own person, for longer than I have,” Dorian amended. “Danarius didn’t really allow for any cultivation of personal interests. You just sort of went along with _his_ interests and hoped they didn’t kill you. And- well, it’s abundantly obvious that I don’t actually know what Fenris likes, really, so…” he trailed off with a shrug.

“I don’t think he’ll say no to free wine,” Aveline said. “They won’t have slaves there, will they?”

“Unlikely. The demesne is owned by some minor cousin of House Pellinar which went native sometime before the last age when this was still Orlesian territory, not the actual members of House Pellinar.”

They paused to consider his words.

“Well, if it turns out I’m wrong I’m sure you’ll be able to see the smoke from the Keep,” Dorian said wryly.

“Or you could hold him back and let me arrest them.”

“Does your jurisdiction extend that far beyond the city limits? Demesne Pellinar is so far east it’s practically in Ostwick.”

“They have to come into town some time,” Aveline said.

Dorian shrugged, not entirely sure he agreed with that line of logic.

“Can you at least try to stop him from murdering anyone whose family might kick up a fuss? I have enough to deal with as it is!”

“Aveline, I have terrible news for you,” Dorian replied. “Fenris has always been the calmer and more reasonable of the two of us, and now that I’ve just come out of twelve year’s worth of holding back I’d really just like to set things on fire.”

Aveline sighed heavily.

“Hey, necromancer!” Hawke called from the sewer, sounding out of breath. “Get your ass in here and figure out how to stop these corpses from getting back up!”

“Bring Aveline!” Varric added, sounding even more out of breath. “I need someone to stand behind!”

* * *

In a colossal feat of will power, self-control and immense acting prowess, Dorian managed to keep a straight face until they were safely ensconced in their coach. Then, the moment they began to move, he started howling. He managed to stop around the time they passed the outermost boundaries of the property, but he set himself off again by looking at Fenris’ face, which was still contorted into the most sour-faced stuffed-frog look known to either elf or human- and probably dwarf and Qunari too.

“You- you won the wine tasting,” Dorian managed, still overcome with the odd giggle. There was a point that he was trying to make, about winning things generally being cause for celebration, but it got lost when Fenris’ scowl deepened and he doubled over laughing once more.

“I was being sarcastic,” Fenris snapped.

“I know,” Dorian said gleefully. It had been really obvious too: there he’d stood, toe-to-toe with people who considered themselves to be professional sommeliers, talking about how the bouquet reminded him of summers in Minrathous- when, incidentally, most of the city stank of over-warm sewage. “And they gave you a _medal_.”

Fenris turned his scowl down at the offending award. “I don’t suppose you could not tell the others.”

“Are you kidding? I’m telling the entire city,” Dorian crowed.

He sobered a bit when Fenris’ reaction was to glower sullenly at him.

“You do realize that four out of five of those judges were being entirely sincere, right?” he checked. “The only one who had the slightest idea was Lady Pellinar, and she thought you were hilarious.”

“Really? She seemed to be drinking heavily every time I spoke.”

“She put her glass in her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh,” Dorian assured him. “Magister Pellinar has the same nervous tic.

“Did you bring me to some Magister’s estate?” Fenris demanded.

“No!” Dorian protested. “This branch of the Pellinar family settled down here in the middle of the Storm Age. They’re only slightly more related to the Marothius Pellinars than I am to Lord Trevelyan.”

“Are you related to Lord Trevelyan?” Fenris asked, startled.

“Very distantly- a distance of about three ages, as it happens,” Dorian replied. “At some point House Pavus produced- horror of horrors!- a mundane child and the shame of it drove them down here to the Marches.”

“And you just know that?”

“Altus, remember? I can recite my family line back down through Halward and Amos and Fabian and Gideon to that old somniari Julian Pavus that got us the rank in the first place,” Dorian said, rolling his eyes.

The open disdain he had towards his bloodline seemed to avoid the fight it might have otherwise started. That, and possibly the wine. “Is that the sort of lessons you had as a child? Reading, writing, arithmetic, and genealogy?”

“Oh no- the genealogy couldn’t wait until I was that old,” Dorian scoffed. “I learned to speak during those lessons I think. And then promptly scared off my first tutor. I was such a brat.”

“I can well imagine it,” Fenris said.

“You don’t have to,” Dorian said. “I had the same temperament and inclinations as an eighteen year old as I’d had at two, just with a lot more practice.”

“I still have to image you as a toddler,” Fenris said, tipping his head back in thought. “I’m imagining you were chubby then.”

“Chubby?” Dorian said in mock offense. “Well, I’ll have you know you were probably a ginger child.”

Fenris straightened and leaned forwards. “Do you think so?” he asked, touching his hair self-consciously. “I- never considered that the brands would have changed _that_.”

“I think so,” Dorian replied. “I sort of remembered Danarius saying something to that effect, but that would have been right after he recovered from Seheron. He had me strung out on basically _everything_ at the time.”

Fenris grimaced, so Dorian hastened to add “Besides, that seems to be the Seheronite elf look, from what I can tell.”

“Varania’s hair was red,” Fenris said thoughtfully, after a moment.

“She had green eyes too,” Dorian reminded him. And then, because they were technically already discussing their families and that was an entire world of no, he added. “So did Siesyll.”

“So did many of the Fog Warriors,” Fenris said.

Which was not a sentence Dorian knew how to respond to, so he stayed silent.

“You know,” Fenris added after a moment. “I won a bottle of wine along with a medal.”

“I like where this is headed,” Dorian replied.

Things eased up considerably after that, as they passed the bottle of wine and lines of banter between them. Fenris told a borderline ludicrous story about how when Hawke had been a pennyless refugee with an apostate sister to fed, she’d gone through a lot of trouble to smuggle a body into the Chantry only for the recipient to thank her politely, hand her fifty silvers, and walk out of the Chantry as though it were the most natural thing in the world. In return, Dorian shared the secret origins of Minrathous’ infamous flying cow tradition, as told to the students of the Circle of Vyrantium.

By the time they arrived back in Kirkwall it was nearly dawn, the sky lightening in preparation for the sunrise. Fenris swayed drunkenly as he clamored out of the carriage. Dorian held out a hand to help steady him, and found himself with an armful of warm, wine-relaxed elf, looking at him with bright green eyes and the tiniest hint of a smile around the corners of his mouth, and-

This. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea along multiple vertices. A very bad idea he should kill now before it caused him to do anything regrettable.

“You are a very drunk elf, Serah Fenris,” he declared. “Shall I walk you home?”

Fenris took a step back. “I- yes. That would be good.”

The easiness they’d had in the carriage had evaporated, and they walked to the mansion in awkward silence.

* * *

_There is absolutely nothing on these walls._

_[Are you kidding me?]_

_They are a plain and unrelenting white, without chips, scuffs or stains. The room is lit so evenly there aren’t even shadows. Dorian doesn’t even cast any shadows, except for a small greyish blob directly beneath his feet._

_[Are you fucking kidding me?]_

_Dorian watches it as he paces. This may have caused him to pace headlong into the wall, twice. He might be doing it on purpose just for the sheer hell of it._

_[No.]_

_It’s very possible that he’s going insane._

_[Yes, you are, and you’re probably going to drag me right there with you, which is doubly insane because I am you, and I’ve already lived through this.]_

_Just a little bit insane- he’ll go just insane enough to keep himself entertained, he decides, and no more._

_[You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!]_

_To that end, he decides to start trying to literally walk up the wall again- he’s seen some of Danarius’ guards practicing just such a tactic on the training ground. He knows it’s possible._

_[I protest! This is pointless, it is maddening, it is **boring** and I refuse to put up with it!]_

_The eighteenth time he managed to knock himself flat on his back, he begins to wonder if maybe the fact that all the guards he’s seen walk up walls are elves has something to do with it. He doesn’t bother getting up._

_[WHAT IS THE POINT OF THIS? WHAT POSSIBLE REASON COULD THERE BE FOR ME TO RELIVE THIS?]_

_He tries to pinpoint the light source for the fourteenth time. Or maybe it’s the fifteenth. No, he decides, it’s the fourteenth._

_[THIS IS UNBEARABLE! I WANT TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER OF MY SUBCONSCIOUS! I DEMAND TO MEET WITH THE DEMON IN CHARGE!]_

_He doesn’t have any more luck now than he had before. The entire ceiling might very well be the light source. He sits up. The walls look no brighter or darker than the ceiling. They simply are._

_[IS THIS YOU, DANARIUS? ARE YOU TORMENTING ME FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE? DID YOU ARRANGE TO TORMENT ME FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE? DID YOU BUILD SOME KIND OF FAILSAFE INTO THE COLLAR? DID YOU MAKE SOME KIND OF PACT WITH ONE OF THE DEMONS YOU DEALT WITH?]_

_He wishes he could make some kind of impression on the wall. But his food is white rice in white cream served on white bowls, he’s only been given water to drink, and his attempts at making himself bleed have all failed, no matter how hard he bite or scratched himself._

_[THIS IS RIDICULOUS!]_

_At this point he’s seriously considering smearing his own shit on the wall, like he’s some kind of monkey. He can almost picture it._

_[ **VENHEDIS KAFFAN VAS**!]_

_Picturing it is a mistake._

_[WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?]_

_He starts picturing brown patterns on the wall and then he’s not picturing it as they expand and go skittering around the room. He knows, on one level, that the uncomfortable prickling on his skin is because he’s been in here for three weeks without any kind of means to keep himself clean, and but it feels like the skittering has come in from the walls and it crawling over him._

_[THAT’S ENOUGH!]_

_He closes his eyes but it doesn’t help and he’s promised himself not to cry and more but he still curls in upon himself in the middle of room and weeps._

_[WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE-]_

* * *

“Is it really important for you to have sex again?”

That, Dorian was fairly certain, was Justice. He wasn’t drinking, even after Dorian had asked and poured him a glass, and Anders, who had fallen into bed with Isabela after escaping the Circle, would not have needed to ask that question. Neither would Vengeance, possibly.

“After everything that happened? Yes, yes it is,” Dorian replied.

There was a shuffling noise from outside the clinic door, and they both stilled, waiting to see what would happen. The lantern was out, but medical emergencies waited for no man’s light source. The shuffling noise’s owner passed by the door without comment, and they turned back to each other.

“Why?” Justice asked.

“Danarius took a lot from me,” Dorian said. “I don’t just mean that he enslaved me, or that he made me his concubine. He took twelve years of my life- important years, too: I was a teenager when I got handed over to him, and now I’m practically _middle-aged_. And he took my home…”

Dorian knocked back the rest of his drink rather than continuing.

“Your home?” The question was asked so gently that he was no longer sure it was still Justice.

“I’m not sure I can ever go back to Tevinter,” he admitted. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, and it stung bitterly. For years, he’d told himself that when Danarius was dead and it was all over that he was going to take what he learned from his time as a slave and use it to make the Imperium better. But the desire to save the Imperium from its own decadence had been worn out of him at some point. Maybe it would have been rekindled if Mae was less adept at handling things, or if Kirkwall had been less welcoming. But as things stood now, the thought of being back in Tevinter, of being in any of the places there that Danarius had so thrived in, made him feel small and vaguely ill. He’d much rather stay here, where Danarius died, safely ensconced by the people who killed him and then accepted Dorian without pause. “If you think I’m a wreck now, imagine how bad I would be somewhere where I was surrounded with constant reminders of Danarius at every turn.”

“I don’t think you’re a wreck.”

Dorian waved the platitude off with a snort. “I _know_ I’m a wreck: things are hardly unsalvageable, but there was definite wrecking involved.”

It seemed almost cleaner that way. He could pick over the debris, discard as much of Danarius’ Dorian as possible, untangle Dorian Pavus from his family’s expectations and his own blinding privilege and set himself to rights from there. The metaphor was certainly easier to deal with than the mess in his head: just pick up the parts of himself he wanted and leave the rest behind.

Like having sex. He really wanted to pick that up again.

“I used to enjoy sex,” he said. “I enjoyed it a lot. I can’t turn back time, I can’t even begin to imagine how to deal with Tevinter, but I don’t want him to have ruined that for me.”

“It’s lonely too, isn’t it?” And yes, he was speaking to Anders now. The way he had finally picked up his drink just confirmed it.

“Yes. It seems unfair to admit it, but yes,” Dorian agreed.

“Unfair?”

“This is the most-” He cut himself off with a sigh. _Kaffas_ , was there a way to say this without coming across as a complete sap? “You, Hawke, the whole merry band of adventurers, Orana, Jethann, Lia and Donnic… I’ve never been able to rely on anyone quite like I’ve been able to here, with all of you. You know what happened with my family, and while I wasn’t without friends in Tevinter, they either stopped being friends after I was married, or I had to be so careful with them all the time. It would have been so easy for Danarius to hurt them, and he would have done it just to drive it in to me that he could. That’s not really an issue here.”

“Having a group of friends is not the same thing as having a lover, though,” Anders pointed out.

“No, that’s certainly true,” Dorian said with another sigh. “I want to kiss someone. I want to hold someone. I want to suck someone’s cock.”

He’d timed that last sentence correctly for Anders to do a spectacular spit take.

“Well, don’t hold back,” Anders spluttered, grinning. “Tell me how you really feel!”

“Incredibly frustrated,” Dorian told him. “I feel so incredibly frustrated, Anders, you have no idea. I just want it all so badly-”

“So badly you can almost taste it?” Anders suggested with a truly ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows.

Dorian pulled a face and stuck his tongue out. “The only thing I want more is to not panic while I’m doing it, which is a lot harder right now than it has any right to be.”

Anders waited perhaps half a second before saying “It sounds like that’s not the only thing that’s hard.”

“How dare you?” Dorian clutched at his chest in mock offense. “I come in here and bare my soul, and all you give me in return is penis puns?”

If Anders had ever had a head for alcohol, he had certainly lost it before Dorian met him. He’d barely had one drink and he was already giggling at the word ‘penis’.

“It’s not like you don’t know what to expect me to stick you with,” he choked out.

“Oh, stop,” Dorian said. He wished they were in The Hanged Man- then he could throw a crumbled-up napkin at the man. “That was just awful.”

“And it’s not like you take my advice,” Anders pointed out.

“You are the last person who should be lecturing about the importance of a regular sleep schedule,” Dorian point out.

“That’s not the only advice I give you.”

“Find someone I trust to do the deed with, you mean?” Dorian replied. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid.”

Anders paused, clearly have some kind of internal debate which only possibly involved his other two personalities. Before he could reach some decision, however, there was a knock on the door.

“Healer!” called a strained sounding woman.

Anders cast some kind of healing spell that purged the alcohol from their minds, and by the time Dorian opened the door his demeanor was wholly that of a professional healer.

* * *

The Wounded Coast was not Dorian’s favorite place to be. Unfortunately, it was a favorite place for a wide variety of mercenaries, slavers, blood mages, and kidnappers, so Hawke dragged the lot of them out there fairly often.

Today they were out looking for a young kidnapped noblewoman. Hawke had been anticipating a long, hard slog to reach her- something about the late Viscount’s equally late son and the Qunari, the details of which he would have to press the others for later- so she’d brought along himself, Fenris, and Merrill.

Contrary to anticipations, they found said kidnapped noblewoman standing in a secluded corner of the coastline, surrounded by corpses and only mildly distraught.

“You, there! Did my love send you? Will you take me to him?” she asked.

Dorian turned to Hawke, as did Fenris and Merrill.

“Uh..?” was Hawke’s reply. “Your father sent us, actually. I’m assuming that’s not who you’re talking about?”

“Feynriel, the man of my dreams!” Orlanna corrected. “These brutes intended to take my maidenhood! As they argued about who would go first, I fainted! Then Feynriel spoke to me in a vision and told me not to fear. When I awoke, the men had slain one another. Please, take me to Feynriel. I want to thank him properly.”

The four of them exchanged glances.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Dorian said slowly. “But isn’t Feynriel the young somniari you-”

“Yep,” Hawke said with a significant look. Right- Kirkwall wasn’t the place to go around mentioning powerful mages sent to Tevinter.

“You do know him,” Orlanna sighed dreamily.

“Hey!” cried out another voice. “What did you do to my men? I’ll kill you ‘till you’re good and dead!”

“Oh no,” Dorian replied. “Are you sure you can’t just kill us until we’re slightly bruised?”

The fight didn’t take very long: between his horror spells and Merrill’s lightning, the remaining mercenaries were dead almost before Hawke and Fenris got the chance to do any stabbing.

“It seems I must wait a bit longer for my love,” Orlanna said, sighing down at the bodies again. “Thank you for your aid. I will find my way back to Kirkwall. The walk will tire me, and we’ll be united in my dreams. Feynriel, my love- I’m coming!”

She took off.

“We’re just going to-” Merrill and Fenris blinked at him; Hawke was too busy pawing over the bodies to reply. Okay, apparently they were just going to let her walk back to the city herself. “If you do see Feynriel, tell him to get in touch with Maevaris Tilani!” he called after her.

Orlanna disappeared without giving any sign that she had heard.

Hawke took her time with the bodies, and then still more time looking for, of all things, a Qunari sword, which meant that by the time they were ready to return to Kirkwall it was too late for them to make it back to the city before nightfall. They set up camp on the cliffs, overlooking the sea.

“This is a very romantic spot, don’t you think?” Merrill asked him.

Dorian nodded, and made a point of setting up his bedroll as far away from her and Hawke’s bedrolls as he could. Unfortunately, this meant he was also pretty far away from the fire.

“I can hear you shivering from the latrine,” Fenris grumbled, tossing his cloak over to Dorian.

“Thanks,” Dorian replied, tucking it around himself.

“Maevaris Tilani?” Fenris asked.

“Varric’s cousin-in-law. You remember,” Dorian replied.

“The magister,” Fenris said flatly.

“That’s the one,” Dorian said.

Fenris came over to wear he was laying, curled in upon himself for warmth, and sat down.

“Do you trust her?” he asked, which wasn’t the sort of belligerent response he’d been bracing for, at least.

“Yes,” Dorian replied. “With the lives of everyone Danarius owned, as it happens.”

“How did that happen?” It sounded like a demand. Dorian had been expecting it, but Fenris winced.

It occurred to him, then, that he might not be the only one who kept saying things more harshly than he wanted to.

“Slowly,” Dorian said, sitting up. “We met through the Alexius family- do you remember Gereon Alexius?”

“Was he the magister you were to be apprenticed to, before the wedding?” Fenris checked.

“That’s the one. Eventually, Danarius granted me permission to work with him as an assistant. And then it wasn’t long before the whole family were informed of my situation. I had to talk them out of doing something precipitous on my behalf.”

“Danarius must have enjoyed that.”

“I’m not sure Danarius knew,” Dorian said. “He knew House Alexius didn’t much like him, but he was content that they weren’t going to make any move against him, that I would share the details of our work, and Gereon never quite managed to be civil to my father again, once he knew. That was pretty much what he wanted from the arrangement: Gereon was the one Danarius cared about, seeing as he was the head of his house. His mistake- Felix was the one who should have worried him.”

“Felix being Gereon’s heir?” Fenris checked.

“Yes. Moreover, Felix is- he’s like Hawke,” Dorian tried to explain. “He’s a very good person, and very good at bringing disparate people together to do good. Finding out what was happening to me sort of unsettled the entire household, but with Felix- the ‘slavery might not be as good a thing as we were raised to think it was’ talk took about an hour, and I honestly think he might have just been letting me vent, because when it was done he had all these _ideas_ about slave rebellions, reformation, and abolition. He’s the one who brought Mae into things, and then Rilienus, and now there’s about two dozen Laetans, some number of Soporati families, and about five thousand liberati in on it.”

“…abolition?” Fenris repeated faintly.

“Don’t get too excited,” Dorian cautioned him. “It’s more of a whisper campaign than a movement at this point. But that’s the eventual plan. Mae’s the leader- she’s powerful in ways that are independent from rather than interdependent on the Magisterium. If things ever become a movement, she’ll be in charge of it.”

“Does she own slaves currently?” Fenris asked.

“Sort of.”

“That’s not a question which can be answered with sort of.”

“There are legal complexities at play.”

Fenris grunted in concession of his point.

“On paper, her household remains staffed by slaves,” Dorian continued. “Buried in the fine print, however, her people are all indentured- once they’ve ‘paid back their worth’ as her husband calculates it, they’re automatically freed. If she dies, they’re all freed. And they all have been granted the right to nullifying their contracts, in which case they will also be freed, and without there being any need to call for a judge to witness it.”

“They can ask to be freed, and be given their freedom, just like that?” Fenris checked.

“A good score or so did exactly that when she announced it,” Dorian replied. “Twelve of them ended up returning to work for her as employees, and everyone currently there seems content to stay with the devil they have some proof gives a damn about them.”

“Why bother with that at all? Why not simply free them outright?”

“It’s a compromise of sorts: it lends her a veneer of respectability while making it so she technically isn’t holding anyone against their will. House Alexius tried freeing their slaves- Felix wouldn’t let it stand, once he’d talked his parents around- and despite doing it as quietly as possible over a period of three years, word still got out, and they lost some standing.”

“Lost some standing.”

“It’s as important a part of Tevinter politics as it is a nonsensical one,” Dorian said.

Fenris grunted again.

“Speaking of Mae,” Dorian said after a moment. “In her most recent letter, she mentioned that she’d heard rumors that the Archon was having some sort of bodyguard imported from the Marches via House Varas. And lo and behold, guess who was invited to visit the estate owned by House Varas in Tantervale?”

“Is it you?”

“It is indeed,” Dorian replied. “Would you care to come with me? It’s only supposed to be a matter of finding the paper trail so Aveline’s Tantervalian counterpart can arrest him, but…”

“Would it be wise for me to be there?” Fenris asked. “I am not exactly inconspicuous.”

“Well, neither am I,” Dorian said flippantly, trying and failing to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. Fenris had a good point after all- most of the Imperium had some idea what Danarius’ bodyguard looked like, even if they’d never laid eyes on the man.

It was just- he’d feel safer with Fenris there.

“Fair enough,” Fenris replied, to his very great surprise. “When is it?”

* * *

_At the Pavus Estate in Qarinus there’s an astrological clock, a genuine work of the master clockmaker Gazar, that had been gifted to Gideon Pavus at the height of his power. It’s a gorgeous piece of interwoven enchantments and mechanics, which tells not only the date and time, but gives the position of the sun along different longitudes, provides accurate star maps, and predicts solar and lunar eclipses of every magnitude. It’s also a veritable circus of automata, little pseudo-golems that move along preordained paths on every hour, whether it’s a reasonable hour to chime or not._

_[Ah. This is the third anniversary then. Lovely.]_

_Therefore, despite the lack of bells and whistles, Dorian knows that it’s exactly five am when Fenris enters the private little tetrastoon where the Gazari clock is sequestered. Dorian watches as the little automata go about their business: the Altus family taking a meal, the kitchen staff already elbow deep in the preparations of the next, some of the maids having a mishap with the aviary that involved them chasing a parrot, and the field hands tended to the orchards, and all of them smiling, happy with their lot in life._

_[It always bothered me, the smiling, even before I knew what was going on. Field work looked so dirty and tedious, after all- who would be smiling during that? And then afterwards, when I was a slave, I realized what complete bollocks the entire scene was. It’s not an idealization, it’s a patronization. It’s a comforting lie about how everyone is content with their station. No wonder Father adores it so.]_

_Fenris drapes a blanket over his shoulders, and presses a hot cup of tea into his hands. Dorian can tell it’s hot because of the steam, rather than any kind of sensation- he’s almost entirely numb at the moment._

_“Thanks,” he says anyway and takes a sip. It’s something with elfroot in it, he can tell from the way his gut twinges, remembering that it still has things that need healing._

_“The healer said you weren’t to speak,” Fenris grumbles._

_Dorian grunts his opinions of that matter into his tea._

_“He’s with your father and Master Danarius now,” Fenris informs him._

_“Ah. Have they settled on a suitable epitaph for my urn yet?”_

_Privately, he admits to himself that the sour expression and flick behind the ear Fenris gives him in reply is completely warranted. His voice grates out of him in the barest whimpering whispering, and he has to put considerable and painful effort into producing even that much._

_Still he continues. “Has ‘Here lies Dorian of House Pavus and House Danarius, fucked to death in his parents’ home’ come up yet?”_

_[Maker, I really did spend a lot of those early years just needlessly causing myself pain. What was I hoping to gain from this?]_

_Fenris scowls._

_“No, you’re right, that’s far too honest,” Dorian rasps. He takes another fortifying drink from his tea, before he adds “I suppose it’ll be ‘Here lies Dorian, a victim of passion’ or something along those lines.”_

_Fenris flicks him behind the ear again. To Dorian’s surprise, he doesn’t immediately withdraw, but settles down next to Dorian on the bench with his arm still slung over Dorian’s shoulder in a kind of half-hug. “ **Fasta vass** , must you make things so hard for yourself?”_

_Dorian half shrugs, careful not to dislodge Fenris’ arm. Fenris tightens his grip a little, encouraging him to lean on the elf’s shoulder. He does so, relaxing a bit as between the blanket, the tea, and the proximity, he starts to finally warm up._

_[Oh. Right. Maker, but I am **pathetic**.]_

_He really must have come very close to dying last night, if Fenris feels obliged to comfort him like this, he realizes. It’s more startling than it probably should be- he’s often felt like Danarius was doing things that should kill him, but his injuries are apparently more serious now than those he’d ever inflicted upon Dorian before._

_He’s no healer, but perforated lower intestines certainly sounds pretty bad to Dorian; so does snapped vocal chords._

_[This was the first time he made me scream so much I actually lost my voice from it, I think. It was a twice-yearly event thereafter. I suppose I’m glad it was that rather than the perforated lower intestines.]_

_“He’s explained the severity of your injuries to the magisters,” Fenris tells him. “Your father has arranged for you to have a private suite of rooms in which to recover. I am to stand guard, and Danarius will visit but I don’t believe he will… impress himself further upon you. Or impress me upon you.”_

_[This was our last anniversary together, wasn’t it? We had to extend our stay here until I was well enough to travel, but we still spent the rest of the autumn on Seheron, until the Qunari advanced. We left you behind; we came back here again for the fourth anniversary on our way to look for you, and then you escaped.]_

_“It’s not-”_

_Fenris silences him with a look. Dorian smiles weakly in return, and drinks more of his tea._

_“I am aware that his orders are not my fault,” Fenris says, so quietly that if Dorian wasn’t all but sitting on top of the man he never would have heard the words. “Still, I am sorry for your pain.”_

_Dorian smiles much less weakly at that. It’s the closest thing to open sedition he’s yet heard from Fenris, and the fact that it’s **Dorian’s** near-death experience that’s provoked it is warming in ways he doesn’t want to examine. _

_[Danarius insisted we keep returning to Qarinus to visit my parents every year, even after there stopped being a Seheron to go to. I suppose these visits were less for my detriment and more for Father’s, when all was said and done. It’s a bit difficult to ignore what you’ve done when there’s quite that much screaming going on as a result of it, after all, and Danarius could have no fun rubbing my father's face in something my father was determined to deny the existence of.]_

_Dorian finishes his tea as they sit there in silence. At some point after that, Father’s healer, Paramonus, announces his entrance with a cough._

_“You’re rooms have been set up for you, Lord Dorian,” he says._

_Dorian nods, and manages not to snort at the title._

_“Can you stand?” Fenris asks him._

_Dorian shrugs. He untucks his feet from under the bench, and tries pushing down on them. It only makes his legs tremble more obviously. He shakes his head._

_“Then I shall carry you,” Fenris replies, and scoops him up like a child._

* * *

~~Dear Magister Pavus,~~

~~I have just now received your third missive, presumably offering your condolences for my loss and inquiring as to when I intend to return to my responsibilities at home. Rest assured that your condolences have been received as you might expect them to be, and that I could not possibly be anywhere but Kirkwall at the moment.~~

Dear Felix,

I have a confession to make: I’m a coward, and there is no way I can possibly make introductions on your behalf to Hawke. In truth, it might be better for you to write to her yourself, and allow me to vouch for your character after the fact. If you’re worried about how that might be received, allow me to assure you that Hawke will find the fact that you are writing for permission to court her sister at all very quaint, but she will appreciate the gesture all the same. This is not say that she will accept you immediately- she does not often get a chance to act the protective older sister to Bethany since she joined the Wardens, and I gather it’s an activity she misses nearly as much as she misses Bethany herself. But once you’ve assured her that you bear her sister no ill will, and I’ve assured her that you’re you, she’ll be overjoyed the hear that her sister has such a worthy admirer. She might very well bake you a cake.

Incidentally, if she actually literally bakes you a cake, then she’s testing you. Her baking skills are not on par with her Qunari-wrangling skills, to say the least. This is a fact of which she is well aware, and false flattery will only lower her opinion of you. Clever insults involving wordplay, however, would be received warmly.

~~Dear Father,~~

~~You have sent me three letters now, and I cannot open any of them. You’ll be pleased to know that this is because you’re right about me in some respects: the root of the problem is that I am an unnaturally stubborn, soft-hearted fool.~~

~~Yes, those are his words. If you dislike your opinions aligning themselves with those of my late husband, perhaps you should have conducted your affairs with more respect paid to the principles you raised me to uphold. As it stands, you are a hypocrite and I cannot bring myself to either open your letters or throw them away. Behold the legacy of House Pavus! ~~

Dear Mae,

Our raid on House Varas’ estate in the Marches was a success: the bodyguard in question, as well as four dozen other souls, have been freed, and though Magister Varas himself has made himself scarce, his nephew is currently languishing in a Tantervale jail cell, awaiting word as to whether he’ll be tried here or extradited to the Imperium.

I say ‘made himself scarce’ because Magister Varas was indeed present at the start of the evening: both myself and Fenris were recognized by him. I do hope you have managed to put into place those measures we discussed some month previous, as it is now highly likely that a confrontation between House Pavus and House Varas over the matter of my activities is inevitable, and will be inevitably public.

There is another interesting bit of information we gleaned from the soiree that might interest you: there were sensory deprivation units installed in the dungeons of Demesne Varas. I realize that sensory deprivation does not, upon first glance, seem like any kind of torture, but let me assure I’d rather be strung up by my wrists and beaten head to toe with a leather strap than spend an hour in one of those coffins, and I speak as someone with an unhealthy amount of experience in both activities.

They are a very peculiar instrument of torture, though, and subsequently there are few places which make them. I’ve enclosed the details of the establishments Danarius was in contact with which do offer such services.

Do not worry about me- the Imperium’s counsel is a man I know better than he would like to become public knowledge, and it is already widely known that I’m one of Hawke’s people. My association with the Champion affords me a degree of untouchability which few enjoy, in Kirkwall or elsewhere.

Thank you for recommending that I invest in a courier agency. It has made getting my missives to you and the others in a reliably swift fashion much simpler.

~~Father,~~

~~I have received but not opened your letters. I do not intend to open them, much less read them. They can hardly say anything other than what I imagine them to say. Are they formal offerings of condolences as though I were a recently widowed fellow Altus you barely knew? Or are they the latest in a litany of justifications for the utterly unjustified? Perhaps they are pointed inquiries as to when I intend to return home and pretend the last thirteen years never happened?~~

~~Perhaps you are even attempting to apologize? That one, admittedly, I cannot imagine in any detail. Indeed, I can scarcely imagine it at all without being seized with the urge to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the idea. For you to apologize, you would have to admit that I am an injured party. You would have to admit you were in the wrong. You would have to realize you were wrong, and quite frankly, I don’t believe you capable of even that much. ~~

~~Let me be blunt: I do not want your condolences, your justifications, your inquiries, or even your apologies. I do not want anything of yours, anything from you, or anything to do with you. Simply put, I do not want you in my life in any way, shape, or form.~~

~~Do not contact me again.~~

Dear Gereon,

Enclosed is the information you requested about some of the mysteries surrounding Kirkwall’s unique history. The implications are… unsettling, to say the least. Kirkwall’s violent history might be as much a result of the thinness of the Veil in the area as it is a cause.

You’ll be pleased to know that Hawke herself assembled most of it- and that I have conducted research on my own. None of that research took place at the Circle of Kirkwall, which I’m sure you’re less pleased to know. There are more reasons for this than I have previously disclosed. Yes, my position with Hawke would make receiving permission to peruse the Circle’s library difficult, and yes, it is quite probable that books deemed ‘too dangerous’ are being burned by the Templars.

But there’s more to it than that.

Fenris, who as you might recall left Tevinter with some distrust of mages, has on more than one occasion pulled me aside to reassure himself that I am not being harassed by the Templars stationed in the city. Anders, the healer, has tried very hard not to go into specifics, but what he has told me of his experiences, and the experiences of other mages from these Southern Circles, is enough to curdle the blood. Hawke herself views a fatal conflict between herself and the Knight-Commander inevitable: what is still up in the air is whether or not that confrontation will take Kirkwall from its current state of civil unrest into a state of full-out civil war.

Did you know that the Circle of Kirkwall is housed at the old slave auction house, from back when the city was called Emerius? The citizens of Kirkwall still refer to the place as the Gallows. They’ve even kept all the horrid statues of cringing, fearful servility in the courtyard: twisted, horrible things that make the frescos in Danarius’ Minrathous estate seem positively tame. They certainly make a statement, as Varric is fond of saying, and that statement is ‘well, shit’. ~~And, at the end of the day, I simply do not like the way some of these Templars look at me: less like they’re suspicious (as most people in the South are of me, at least at first), and more like they would like to pick up where Danarius left off with me. It's difficult to put into words, how much I can't  
~~

In short: all those stories about how the Circles are run down here that we dismissed as rumors and propaganda have at least of grain of truth, and that grain is milled here in Kirkwall.

Despite all of this, I remain confident in my safety here. While I am still experiencing trouble with my spell-casting, as one might expect from spending more than five years all but cut off from the Fade, I can cast once more, and my defense barriers have never been stronger. Hawke has been kind enough to teach me the basics of dagger throwing, and I am keeping up with my staff-fighting forms. I can defend myself well enough- I killed four people yesterday all on my own!- and should I ever not feel capable, Fenris or any of the other up to and including Hawke are always quick to come to my aid.

I am safe here. I am just unsure whether that safety would extend into the Circle, even if I were only there for a short while.  

~~To House Pavus,~~

~~Apologies for the late reply: as you might imagine, the situation here has been trying. My gratitude for your condolences on the loss of my husband, and as to your inquiries about my futures plans, kindly go fuck yourself with an unlubed cactus~~.

Dear Rilienus,

I am telling you this as a friend: get some rest. Your penmanship is falling asleep standing up and rapidly falling to the ground. I can only imagine how frantic things must be for you at the moment, but surely you can take eight or even twelve hours off to look after your health?

~~Dear Mother,~~

~~It occurs to me that we’ve never discussed this.~~

~~To be fair, we very rarely discuss much of anything, something which I feel some responsibility for at this point, for all that was part of a pattern established well before I entered adulthood. We simply don’t discuss, generally speaking. As I sit here now, I can’t help but marvel at the sheer breadth of things I don’t know about you.~~

~~But the matter I most regret not discussing right now is the chain of events that lead to my becoming the happiest widower in the history of the Imperium. I have gathered, over the years, the impression that you do not approve of Father’s handling of the situation. But I must admit, that is largely based upon my fond memories of the first anniversary (when Father was attempting to rationalize away the fact that I’d been screaming loudly enough to keep the entire household up, and you very calmly dumped your sherry over his head and very reasonably lit his robes on fire) rather than any outright statements made by you to that effect.~~

~~So, here is a short list of things which I would really like to know:~~

~~When did you know what Father was planning? I don’t just mean Danarius. I mean the other thing. Are you aware there’s another thing? Do you know how Danarius and Father came to their agreement? Did you know about the wedding beforehand, or were you, like me, taken by surprise by the events after they were already underway? If you didn’t know from the start, then did you realize that the marriage was a farce?~~

~~Were you drinking that much before Danarius? I honestly can’t recall.~~

~~I do recall that you didn’t attend any symposiums or conferences before that time, but you did afterwards, and it seemed to me that you chose only those which Danarius would be attending. Was that for me, somehow?~~

~~What do you think of me now?~~

To House Philomelus,

I was delighted to receive your invitation to the opening of the Kirkwall Astrarium, and am even more delighted to inform you that I will be attending with a plus one: Fenris, who you may recall, was instrumental to the Champion’s defeat of the Arishock some three years previous.

I trust the evening will be a pleasant one.

Yours,

Dorian Pavus

* * *

The opening of the Kirkwall Astrarium at the Lafaille Gardens was immensely fascinating. The actual exhibit of enchanted star maps was gorgeous, of course, and then there was the subject matter of the mingling portion of the evening: ancient constellations and their uses in guiding the nomadic Neoromanian tribes, and the endless debate about which of the constellations were taken from the ancient elves were merely two of the main themes of the astrarium’s opening night.

The people here were the sort of people he’d half hoped to run into at the Theoxenia. He was fairly certain he recognized a few of them from the Theoxenia, but they had never seemed like the talking sort. Everyone was the talking sort after a few glasses of wine and a few incendiary comments about the distant continental origin theory.

Except, as it took him some hours to realize, Fenris.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that he was no longer in Dorian’s general vicinity, and then a good twenty minutes to track him down. He had gone outside to the actual garden portion of Lafaille Gardens and was glowering at one of the few plants to still have flowers.

“Fenris! There you are!” he called out.

Fenris grunted, and continued to glower.

Dorian sighed. “This… really isn’t your cup of tea, is it?” he asked.

Fenris shrugged, and didn’t look away from the plants.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian apologized. “We can just skip out now if you like, and we’ll go some place with more alcohol and less academia next time.”

Fenris snorted, still not looking at him.

“Is there something wrong with the flowers?” Dorian asked.

“They’re marigolds,” Fenris said venomously. “Copper marigolds.”

“And they’re mocking you somehow?” Dorian asked.

“Yes.”

Dorian looked at, and then at the marigolds, and then back at Fenris. “I can’t help but get the impression that I’ve missed something.”

“You and Merrill could start a club!” Fenris snapped.

“Are we even having the same conversation?” Dorian demanded.

“I don’t know!”

“Well…” Dorian trailed off, taking the opportunity to look at the elf’s expression while he was actually looking at him. Fenris seemed frustrated- beyond frustrated. There was something wrong, and he had no idea what it was. “I don’t know either.”

Fenris’ scowl deepened, and Dorian could swear he heard all the progress they’d made over the last five weeks worth of regular meals together slipping away, and he had no idea how to stop it.

“Can you- if I knew what I was doing wrong-” he began.

“Dorian,” Fenris interrupted, his voice harsh.

Dorian fell silent, waiting.

“Dorian,” Fenris repeated, more softly. Hesitantly, he reached out a placed a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“All… right?” Dorian said, when Fenris declined to elaborate.

“You- you do wish to be here, right?” Fenris asked.

“Yes, of course I do,” Dorian replied. “I’m not the one who went out into the garden to sulk and ended up being mocked by marigolds. I was having a perfectly lovely evening tearing apart Jericho’s Elvhen Assimilation Paradigm to people who consider Jericho’s sociology theories to be unassailable until I realized you weren’t around.”

“That… is not what I meant, exactly.” His hand was still on Dorian’s shoulder. There was no particular reason for him to notice this, except for the way the rest of Fenris seemed to be drifting closer.

“Well, what did you mean then, exactly?” he asked.

“I mean with me,” Fenris said. “Do you wish to be with me?”

“Yes, of course,” Dorian said. “Look, I _am_ sorry for not noticing you weren’t having fun. Like I said, we can just skip out now. I’m in no danger of running out of idiots to harass- I apparently share a roof with some of those idiots. We can go down to The Hanged Man if you like: Varric will be there, and probably Isabela. It’ll be fun.”

Fenris opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the sound of screaming from within the building.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , what now?” Dorian complained, as he and Fenris rushed inside.

Assassins, apparently. And not assassins with Zevran’s flair for not being terrible- no, these were assassins in the Tevinter sense: flashy, political, and hired to make a statement even if they failed to kill their target.

Their target was the Knight-Commander. He had mixed feelings about saving her life, which became less mixed when he realized that the assassin were not merely operating in the Tevinter style, but were themselves from Tevinter.

He would love to say that there was something small that gave them away, something that he puzzled out because he was extraordinarily clever. But, alas, they gave themselves away by referring to Dorian as a whore: specifically, a kept man whose patron was known for sharing.

That was a specific kind of threat that Dorian had learned to deal with in a variety of ways- especially towards the end, when his leash was getting rather long and he was using that length to go around visiting various clerks in an effort to rearrange the will, and Danarius _absolutely could not_ learn where he was. He could feel his defense mechanisms click into place like a steel trap, and turned a blandly flirtatious smile on the would-be assassin struggling against his barrier.

‘What are my options?’ he asked himself, and quite suddenly he realized he was spoiled for them: the guard was here in force, Fenris would leap at the opportunity to attack the man, the Templars might frown upon his -

His smiled turned predatory, and his face didn’t feel quite his own. “ _Iterum dicere potes_?” he asked.

“ _Dixi_ -” was as far as the man got before he caught himself. It was enough.

“I take it you’re one of the men he sent after Fenris,” Dorian said, switching to Trade. “I do hope you’re not expecting to be paid. Or did you come all the way down here, realize what you were up against, and decide that discretion was the better part of valor?”

The man spat.

“Do speak up,” Dorian said.

“I don’t take orders from a mincing cata-”

Dorian swatted him across the room: no incantation passed his lips, no motion was made at all besides a little twist of his staff. It would have taken more effort to swat a fly. The man landed, flat-footed, against the far wall before Dorian allowed him to crumple on to the floor with a ragged scream of pain.

The room had gone very quiet. Dorian was aware of this mostly because he could hear his footsteps echo as he crossed the room.

“There’s no need to be impolite about this,” he said, kneeling down next to the would-be assassin. “I’m merely trying to discern which of the Houses took you so far out of your way.”

“The Order of Serapis doesn’t employ traitors,” the man hissed.

Dorian pulled the birthright out of his robes for him to see. “Is the Order of Serapis aware that he’s dead?”

The man glowered.

“So you _are_ here on behalf of someone else in the Imperium,” Dorian deduced. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why anyone back home is interested in the Templar Order in Kirkwall? I mean, you were shouting about mage freedom earlier, but I think we both know that’s a little too altruistic a motive for these tactics.”

“Hey,” Hawke interrupted, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Dorian blinked at her in a good approximation of surprise. “Hey, Dorian, what the fuck?”

“My country is awash in megalomaniacal nearsighted cretins and I am very tired of dealing with them,” Dorian told her. “That’s the fuck.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Hawke agreed. “Why don’t you leave this particular megalomaniacal nearsighted cretin for me to deal with, and go with Fenris, okay?”

Dorian thought about that for a moment- or tried to, at least. Hawke had scattered his caravan of thought when she arrived, and now he was having trouble even completing the metaphor.

“Sure,” he agreed, since that seemed easiest, and followed Fenris out of Lafaille Gardens and into a hidden alleyway.

“Dorian, what was that?” Fenris demanded.

Dorian shrugged. He really didn’t know.

“Are you- are you well?” Fenris asked, in a gentler tone of voice.

“I feel fine, I suppose,” Dorian replied. He looked down at his hands- they weren’t shaking. His voice was steady. He had to concentrate to feel his heartbeat, and when he did, it was sedate, nearly serene. But he felt like he should be shaking.

“Dorian,” Fenris called, placing two fingers on his wrist. Dorian was still staring at his hands, and that hadn’t been the first time Fenris had called his name.

“Yes, that’s me,” Dorian said.

“Let’s sit down,” Fenris said. Dorian nodded, and let himself be guided onto a nearby bench.

“Talk to me, Dorian,” Fenris said.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.”

“Anything.”

Fenris pulled the kind of face Dorian would normally find very funny.

“How about you explain what made you decide to throw the assassin across the room?” Fenris suggested.

“He was rude,” Dorian replied.

“Is it a good sign that you are so-”

“Unnaturally stubborn?” Dorian finished for him, and the words unlocked something. “He knew what I was. I mean, a lot of people know these days: our merry band of adventurers, Merrill’s clan, even most of the guard has some idea at his point. But even with people like Anders and Isabela, it’s not really _real_. The assassin- he was part of a group Danarius had dealings with, back when he was sending people after you. He knew exactly what a few honeyed words in Danarius’ ear could have gotten him back in Tevinter, and how powerless I would have been to stop him. It’s the first time that’s happened, down here. I guess I’m not taking it very well.”

“I- am sorry. I am so very sorry, Dorian.”

Admittedly, he was apparently in no fit state to throw stones, but he was pretty sure that Fenris had done nothing to warrant an apology. “You’re… sorry?”

“I left you behind,” Fenris said, sounding wretched. “With him.”

“You left- Fenris, you escaped. That’s a good thing,” Dorian said incredulously. “Don’t apologize for that-I’d have left me behind too, if I could have managed it.”

“I could have brought you with me.”

“He’d have come after us.”

“I could have killed him while he was weak and brought you with me,” Fenris argued. “I could have stood with the Fog Warriors against him- they’d have taken you in too, after it was over.”

“I- it’s not your fault, that things didn’t happen like that,” Dorian said.

“Isn’t it? Whose fault was it then- and don’t say Danarius,” Fenris retorted. “I made my own choices.”

“But you hadn’t been doing that as long as he’d been making them for you,” Dorian said.

“That doesn’t mean I’m incapable.”

“No, but that does make it harder,” Dorian pointed out. “This is me you’re talking to, remember? I know what he was like. He told you to jump, and you didn’t bother asking yourself if you should jump, you just tried to figure out how high he wanted you to jump in whatever way was least likely to earn you beating. The fact that you were able to stop yourself, to leave- that’s not a small thing.”

“You managed to question him,” Fenris retorted.

“I managed to maneuver around him when he wasn’t looking, not disobey direct orders while he was standing right there- not as effectively as you did, anyway,” Dorian reminded him. “And I had a life before Danarius. I’m not particularly proud of all of it, but it’s there. I can remember it in embarrassing detail. You don’t have that: I don’t doubt that made breaking away much harder for you, and yet, you managed it anyway.”

“How can you say that?” Fenris demanded. “As though you-”

“As though I what? Am glad you ran away?” Dorian replied. “Of course I’m glad. I mean, I would have been much happier if it had all ended sooner, but if it could only be one of us who escaped, I’m glad it was you. Even with all that’s happen, Tevinter is a much friendlier place towards me than towards you. Danarius at least had to pretend not to break me and-” He suddenly remembered, and it cut through the lingering bits of not-feeling, of being not-him. “ _Fasta vass_ , your markings!”

“What about them?” Fenris asked. The surprise in his tone registered but didn’t really sink in.

“Maker, I didn’t even think,” Dorian said. “Are you alright? Are they causing you any pain? I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

“If I’m not to apologize for leaving you with Danarius, then you should not apologize for my brands,” Fenris said sternly.

“But you’ve said it yourself, magic can aggravate-”

“It’s a dull ache, and easily ignored in this case,” Fenris assured him.

“You’ll let me know?” Dorian asked. “If it’s more than a dull ache, or if you can’t ignore it easily.”

“I- will you let me know, if you come across anything that will cause you to react this badly again?” Fenris countered.

“I don’t even know what happened this time,” Dorian told him. “Let alone what might set me off again.” He considered that statement for a moment before he laughed, bitter and short. “ _Venhedis_ , what’s wrong with me? You- you had to do this on your own for years, and you’re _fine_ , why am I so-”

“I couldn’t stop, remember?” Fenris said. “There were habits I picked up as a slave in Tevinter which I had to keep right up until Danarius’ death- it simply wasn’t safe otherwise. And now that he is dead, and I no longer have to keep them, I’ve found that… some things have become more difficult. I do not know whether it’s the change in routine, or merely the fact that I’m no longer being pursued, but even though it should be over now, it isn’t. Sometimes it feels as though it has just begun.”

Fenris had been sitting next to him the whole time. It wasn’t a very big bench- there wasn’t a lot of space between them. Dorian didn’t have to move to reach out and take Fenris by the hand, which was good because he wasn’t sure he could manage much in the way of movement at the moment- and look, his hands were shaking now.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

He had absolutely no way of knowing what he wanted to convey to Fenris just then, let alone how to say it, so they just sat there, holding hands, until Fenris said. “Let’s get you back to your hotel.”

* * *

_He awakes to the now familiar teeth-achingly sweet residue of magebane coating the inside of his mouth and equally familiar feeling of having been trampled half to death. He’s sore all over, dull pain flaring as he flops onto his back, looking up at the ceiling for some clue as to what Danarius has done to him this time._

_It’s the ceiling over Danarius’ bed in Minrathous that greets his eyes. He stares at it for a few moments, the nagging sensation that he’s not where he ought to be growing until a damn breaks and he **remembers**. _

_The Qunari taking back Seheron. Fighting alongside Fenris and Danarius as they ran for the ferries. Danarius leaving Fenris behind, injured and utterly betrayed. Trying to jump off the boat after him, only to be placed under a blood thrall._

_[Ah. I was wondering when I would get to this.]_

_That had been four days ago. Danarius must have grown tired of replenishing the thrall- or perhaps he’s merely run short of lyrium to cast from, seeing as **he’s left Fenris to the fucking Qunari.**_

_Dorian sits upright, and takes stock. At some point, he’d either been changed or been made to change out of his travelling clothes and is now wearing his normal indoor clothing in all its revealing glory. On the bright side, he’s not naked, which is always a plus when it comes to awakening in uncertain circumstances. Between the magebane and the lingering aftereffects of the thrall, he’s not at the peak of steadiness, but he’s an old hand at this now. Physical activity, even something as simple as pacing, will help clear the toxins from his system. So will water, provided he can get his legs to cooperate, and the bathroom door was left unlocked._

_After a few moments, he tests his legs, and finds them in a manageable state. The bathroom door is unlocked. He drinks from the faucet directly, and once that Void-awful taste is out of his mouth he finds it much easier to think._

_Danarius must be exhausted- tired enough to be making mistakes. Dorian would have turned on him on the ferry, had he been given the chance, and Danarius knows it. Normally when he has some inkling that Dorian is feeling less terrified and more murderous towards him, Dorian would wake up in the saferoom in the corner of the master suite, or in the dungeons. Some place where he could be easily contained until Danarius was satisfied that he was unlikely to attempt mariticide._

_Danarius’ bedroom is big and open and lined with shelves and cabinets containing any number of objects which could potentially be used for homicide. Dorian decides that he’ll do something marginally less simple than pacing, and check to make sure none of them have been left unlocked._

_[I did spend a lot of my time trying to find a way to kill him, didn’t I?]_

_The doors are the first things he checks: only the door between the bathroom and Danarius’ bedroom is open. The others are all magically sealed, as are the windows overlooking the tangelo orchards to the west and the courtyard to the south. Dorian can feel the crackle of the barrier as it draws on the Fade, and checks himself next: he can feel the Veil give- less easily than normal but give all the same- and lets the flames fizzle out before they can fully manifest in the physical world._

_Danarius must be really, really exhausted, if he’s slipped up badly enough to allow Dorian his magic when he knows Dorian wants to kill him. Good. That’s one more advantage over Dorian which he no longer possesses: Dorian wouldn’t say he’s well-rested, but right now he’s far too angry to be tired._

_It’s a cold anger, too. He’s perfectly calm, perfectly rational, and now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can kill Danarius. He’d killed at least five people to get off of Seheron, and he hadn’t hated any of them- especially not the way he hates Danarius._

_[You know, I’m not sure that feeling ever went away. Even now, after he’s been dead for the better part of a year, it’s still there. I still hate him- truly, utterly, **desperately** hate him.]_

_The cabinets are all locked tightly, and the shelves are warded: he could probably lift something off of them with magic, but kinetics have never been his strong suit, and with the traces of magebane still present in his system, he doesn’t trust himself not to cause the entire shelf not to collapse._

_[Is that why I’m doing this? Because I haven’t stopped hating him? It can’t just be the collar, because I’m reliving events from before the collar, case in point. As much as I don’t intend to tell Anders this, it’s very probable that this is a psychological problem as much as it is a magical one.]_

_If he can get Danarius into position, though, maybe he can use that._

_He’s about to make another turn around the room, and see if there’s something sharp he can stick under the pillow to try and stab Danarius with if all else fails, when Danarius himself enters._

_[If the moral of this travesty is that I can stop hating him now, this is literally the worst possible method to deliver the message. Maybe it would be easier to not still hate him if I wasn’t reliving all of the hateful things he did every time I dream? Just a thought.]_

_Dorian makes a show of continuing to stare out the window instead of acknowledging Danarius’ entrance: really, though, he’s taking this opportunity to study his husband’s appearance in the reflection on the window. He looks tired- haggard even. Dorian fights the urge to smile._

_“Ah,” Danarius says, his voice carefully neutral. “You’re awake.”_

_“Yes,” Dorian says agreeably. “I am.”_

_He doesn’t bother with the incantation- the fire he wants to summon might not have manifested on this side of the Veil, but it hadn’t strayed very far either. Danarius doesn’t quite manage to get out of the way in time, and he shouts as his sleeve catches fire. The rest of the flames connect with the wall behind him, leaving an ugly scorch mark Dorian barely notices, preoccupied as he is with trying again._

_This time, Danarius dispels the flames before they can connect with anything. Dorian conjures another fireball, but this time, it’s a distraction. Danarius falls for it- he dispels the fire and misses the vase Dorian hurtles after it. It breaks against his face with a very satisfying crunch, and Danarius staggers, blood streaming down and staining his robes._

_Dorian tries to mine the floor beneath Danarius’ feet, but before he can properly prime the glyph, Danarius’ eyes glow red and Dorian is thrown backwards._

_‘Ah,’ he has time to think, ‘Next time I have the chance, I’ll have to throw something a little less likely to bloody the blood mage.’_

_[And this is why I decided to go with poison, and specifically a difficult to brew but even harder to detect poison. Every time I tried anything blatant, it gave me a few seconds of very temporary victory and an entire world of pain.]_

_Then he hits the wall. The pain is blinding for a moment, as is the urge to vomit. The room spins and Dorian can feel blood trickling down the back of his neck. He ignores it, hurdling himself towards Danarius before he’s even properly back on his feet._

_Danarius intercepts him, walking him back to the bed with only a little bit of applied magical force. Dorian lets him, putting up only a token struggle- physically at least. In terms of what magic can do for him, he’s merely biding his time._

_“Now now, my boy,” Danarius says through grit teeth as he pins Dorian down. Normally that means the fight is over and he’s lost again, but normally he’s not willing to risk scorching his own lungs. Right now, he is absolutely that angry- if he burns with Danarius, then so be it. “That’s quite enough of that, don’t you think?”_

_He bends further over Dorian to better pin his wrists over his head, which gives Dorian a perfect opportunity to breathe fire all over Danarius’ face. Danarius screams, jumping back, the smell of burning hair and skin filling the room._

_Dorian smiles, but his victory is short-lived: he doesn’t even have time to push himself upright before Danarius strikes back, pulling the energy from Dorian’s blood, the sick yanking tug in his veins lost among the lightning crackling through him as the world goes grey around him. When it’s over, he doesn’t quite pass out, but rather hovers on the edge of consciousness, limbs twitching, muscles screaming, and all of him in utter agony in general. He can’t open his eyes, and can’t focus well enough to hear, but he’s aware that multiple people enter the room at some point, and that he’s picked up and brought somewhere else, his limbs positioned and then held down._

_“Drink.”_

_His mouth is opened, and Dorian does his best to swallow so he doesn’t choke on the syrupy potion being poured down his throat. It strips the layer of soot off his tongue, and then he can identify what he’s been given: it’s more magebane. Dorian could have sighed with relief- magebane will knock him the rest of the way out now, he’s sure of it._

_“And this.”_

_The next potion isn’t magebane, but some kind of healing concoction which pulls Dorian back from the brink of unconsciousness. He whimpers._

_“And one more.”_

_He’s not familiar with this potion- it jolts him awake, and he would have shot off the bed if he wasn’t chained to it, even with his limbs still shaking._

_“That will be all, Eurydice.”_

_“Magister Danarius,” the healer murmurs, and takes her leave._

_Dorian takes a few shaky breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. It doesn’t really work, but he resolves to ignore it. He takes a look around, as much as he can- his muscles still won’t cooperate, but he recognizes the duck-shaped chip in the wall. He’s been moved into the saferoom, then._

_“I’ll kill you,” he promises, his voice still rough from screaming._

_[Would this be easier if I had? I mean, he’s dead. Fenris crushed his heart, we dragged his corpse into a sewer, and then I lit it on fire. He’s so dead even I couldn’t bring him back. Shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t that be an end? Would it have made a difference, if I’d been the one to strike the killing blow?]_

_“So you’ve said,” Danarius replies. He’s not currently within Dorian’s field of vision, but he sounds weary._

_“Just because I haven’t managed it yet doesn’t mean I won’t,” Dorian snarls._

_[I spent so long picturing it. Every time I check the githago still at the Alexius estate in Vyrantium, every time I needed to push through something particularly odious, I would think about killing him, I’d imagine it in vivid detail. Is that why this doesn’t feel like it’s over? Because I didn’t actually do it? He’s still dead. I still watched him die. I still lit his corpse on fire. That really should have ended it. This really should be done. I am more than ready for this to be done. I don’t suppose if I phrased that another way this would stop?]_

_Danarius sighs, and comes to stand over him. The burns Dorian had inflicted upon him have been healed, but he’s lost the beard. It’s the first time he’s seen the man clean-shaven._

_[It’s the last time, too. And no wonder- that was a truly terrible look for him.]_

_“Must you be so unnaturally stubborn?” Danarius asks._

_“If you didn’t know I was like this when you married me, it’s certainly no fault of mine,” Dorian retorts._

_Danarius merely sighs again, and reaches for Dorian’s head. Dorian snaps at him, and he withdraws his hand._

_“We have a common cause here, you know,” Danarius tells him, looking disappointed._

_Dorian laughs at him. “Common cause? You left Fenris behind!”_

_“As I left all of the slaves from my Seheron estate behind,” Danarius reminds him._

_That brings him up short, because he hadn’t even thought about the others- they hadn’t actually been on Danarius’ estate when word of the Qunari advance reached them, and then they’d fled without sparing a glance behind them._

_[Provided none of the children manifested magical abilities, the Qun is almost certainly a kinder master to them than Danarius was.]_

_“But I agree with you,” Danarius continues. “Fenris is the important one.”_

_Dorian keeps his mouth shut, waiting._

_“I have every intention of getting him back,” Danarius goes on. “Indeed, I have every intention of returning to Seheron myself to retrieve him.”_

_Dorian continues to say nothing. For a while, neither does Danarius._

_“This is something that would be more easily done with your help,” Danarius admits, finally._

_“What is it you want?” Dorian asks. “A promise to not kill you?”_

_“Is that so hard to believe?”_

_“It’s hard to believe you would trust it.”_

_[Yeah. He was a lot of things, but unfortunately stupid wasn’t one of them.]_

_Danarius regards him for a moment, something like respect in his eyes. “What would you suggest, then?”_

_“What would you believe?” Dorian counters._

_“I asked first,” Danarius chides, a weak bolt of lightning manifesting from his index finger and hitting Dorian’s navel._

_Dorian tries to curl up on himself, but can’t, seeing as he’s still chained to the bed._

_‘Right, yes, point made, I’m not in a good position to be pushing anything,’ he thinks. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly._

_“I promise to not make any attempt to kill you until we have Fenris safely off of Seheron,” he suggests._

_“That’s acceptable,” Danarius allows. There’s another jolt of lightning, and Dorian flinches, but it’s not aimed at him- instead, it opens the manacles around his ankles and wrists._

_Warily, Dorian sits upright._

_“Shall we shake on it?” Danarius asks, holding out his hand._

_Dorian stares at it for a moment, and then gingerly clasps it in his own. “Might as well.”_

_He doesn’t mean a word: if Danarius gives him the chance to do so, he’ll kill the man and go after Fenris himself._

_[And, unfortunately, Danarius knew it.}_

* * *

“Is there a reason you haven’t kissed Fenris yet?” Merrill asked.

Dorian paused in the act of trying to break down a particularly labyrinthine elvhen word into its constituent morphemes to try and parse that question. He turned the words over and over in his mind until they didn’t even seem like words anymore and then gave up.

“What?” he asked in a croak.

“Is there a reason you haven’t kissed Fenris yet?” Merrill repeated. “You do like Fenris, right?”

“Of course I like Fenris,” Dorian protested reflexively. Equally reflexively and far more foolishly, he thought of that moment when Fenris had swayed against him as he helped him down from the carriage, before he hit a wall of ‘don’t even think about it’. “But I’d never do _that_ to him.”

Merrill brow furrowed. “Why not?”

There were so many reasons, Dorian had only to perform the slightest mental flail to come up with one. “I’m a mage, and he’s terrified that I’ll turn into a malificar, or an abomination, or the worst sort of magister, or some terrible combination of the three. Kissing someone you’re terrified of is not fun, take it from me. I don’t want to do that to anyone, least of all Fenris.”

“I’m not sure Fenris is afraid of _you_ , exactly,” Merrill said.

“I am sure of it,” Dorian replied. “That’s why I’m no longer living in the mansion.”

“I thought that was because you had a fight?” Merrill asked.

“We did,” Dorian told. “That ended up being what it was about, in the end. Fenris is terrified of mages, and there I was, a mage, living in his home and damn near monopolizing all of his time. So I left. I’d have left sooner if he’d just told me that was what was bothering him, but…”

“But you didn’t want to go,” Merrill finished, which was not the point and didn’t really completely the sentence besides.

“Well…” Dorian sighed. “I had missed him, while I was stuck in Tevinter.” And he’d been desperately curious about the kind of life Fenris had built for himself in Kirkwall. And then he’d been horrified at the state of decay his home was in. And the mansion had felt safer than any other place Dorian had stayed at in over a decade. And he’d needed a minder in those early days, as much as he hated to admit it. He could have stayed with Varric or Hawke or somebody, though, if Fenris had told him that Dorian’s presence made him uncomfortable. It would have hurt, but he really, really didn’t want to impress himself on Fenris in any way, shape, or form.

He didn’t want to impose upon anybody, but especially not Fenris.

“You two are spending a lot of time together lately,” Merrill pointed out.

“That’s because he’s decided to trust me, and I’m trying very hard to prove that he can,” Dorian explained. “We’re only meeting out in public, in neutral locations, and kissing him out of the blue would be a bit counterproductive to the trusting thing, don’t you think?”

“Is this what it feels like to be Isabela?” Merrill asked, sounding amazed.

“What?” Dorian asked, bewildered. “Did what I said provoke some deep-seated desire to swashbuckle or something, somehow?”

“I miss things,” Merrill clearly thought she explained, but really didn’t at all. “It’s happening less often now, but when I first moved to Kirkwall it happened all the time. Something would happen, and it would be obvious to everyone else why, but I wouldn’t know, and no one quite knew how to explain things because it was so obvious.”

“I don’t follow,” Dorian told her. This was one of the more frustrating aspects of working with Merrill. Sometimes she would just have these leaps of intuition, moving from point A to point G so quickly it seemed like a complete shift in topic, and it could takes hours if not days for him to realize that points B through F even existed. Granted, most of the time when she did that, they were discussing magical theory, not his personal life, but this certainly _felt_ like the same sort of thing.

“This is so _strange_ ,” Merrill said.

“I can agree with you on that point,” Dorian replied. “Though, I can’t help but get the impression that we’re coming from different-”

There was a knock on the door. Dorian and Merrill exchanged looks as he tried to gage whether this was the sort of knock that Merrill, as the owner of the house, should handle, or if maybe he, the human not-apostate, should step in instead.

“Who is it?” Merrill called out.

“Lia, from the city guard!” was the reply.

Merrill opened the door. “Oh? We’re not being invaded again, are we?” she asked, sounding mildly concerned by the prospect.

“Again?” Dorian asked. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Kirkwall was in the habit of being secretly invaded when Merrill answered.

“The last time the guard knocked on my door the Qunari were trying to conquer Kirkwall,” she explained.

“Ah,” he replied.

“Oh good, you’re both here,” Lia said. “We had to arrest Fenris and Hawke last night-”

“What?” they both squawked.

“-and the pair of you should probably come down to the station,” Lia told them. “Now. Sooner, if you can manage it.”

Dorian swallowed his quip about time magic still being _incredibly_ theoretical and followed Merrill out.

* * *

There were times when Dorian honestly forgot what Hawke’s background was. She was a noblewoman, formerly impoverished and currently endowed with a particularly heavy dose of _noblisse oblige_ , which more than explained away any and all lack of etiquette on her part- in his eyes at least. It was hard, at times, to recall that her situation was dissimilar to his own. She was not a member of high society who had fallen upon hard times and dire straits for a period before returning to her station: she was, in fact, someone who’d been born and raised a peasant and had needed to claw her way into the nobility, blue blood be damned.

Right now, however, it was really obvious that she had not been raised with the same kind money and influence he had been.

“You punched a restaurant owner in the face because he refused to admit elves in his establishment?” Dorian checked.

“He still refuses! Can you believe it?” she demanded. “And Fenris helped.”

He turned to Fenris, who shrugged philosophically. “He has two very big daughters with very large knives.”

He turned to Merrill, who also shrugged. “I think she was right to punch him, so…”

“Well, it’s not like I don’t think he didn’t deserve it,” Dorian said, exasperated. “But Hawke. You do realize that you’re the Champion of Kirkwall, right? You could ruin him with an unkind word. Half the nobility owe you favors, and all of them want your favor. Varric would mobilize the Merchant’s Guild against him on your say so. You probably have enough money to buy the place outright, and then you could give it to that elderly woman who runs the confectioner’s stand out by Lirene’s if you wanted.”

Hawke made a considering noise and turned to Merrill.

“I do like the little fried cakes Emerille makes,” she said thoughtfully.

“Oi, Aveline!” Hawke shouted with an impressive amount of volume before he could point out that it hadn’t been a serious suggestion. Dorian winced, and barely suppressed the urge to clap his hands over his ears.

“Not now, Hawke,” Aveline said from where she was seated at a desk a mere twenty feet away from Hawke’s cell.

“But it’s important!”

“You’ve already been to the lavatory thrice, Hawke.”

“Aveline! A-ve-line! Guard Captain Aveline du Lac-Vallen-Hendyr!”

Dorian was about to step out and see if he could persuade Aveline to come and join them in a less publically humiliating manner, but both Fenris and Merrill shook their heads at him, so he stayed put.

“What, Hawke?” Aveline said with a sigh as she heaved herself up against the doorframe.

“Dorian has come up with a brilliant solution!” Hawke said. “I could throw money at the problem!”

Aveline turn her flat, unimpressed look from Hawke to Dorian.

“I didn’t mean-” Dorian protested, and then she turned back to Hawke with a sigh.

“Not now, Hawke,” Aveline repeated, already leaving. “I have a headache!”

“What I mean is I could buy his restaurant!” Hawke yelled after her. “Think of it as settling out of court! And out of your jailhouse! Wouldn’t that help your headache?”

Aveline reappeared in the doorway.

“That’s your idea of a brilliant solution?” she asked Dorian.

“That’s Hawke’s idea of a brilliant solution. Probably because it’s not illegal,” Dorian replied, gesturing to the cells.

“It is super legal!” Hawke chirped. “I’d probably need to draw up a contract and everything!”

“So, you want me to convince Serah Yonkers that he should sell his restaurant to you, in the hopes that he’ll also drop the charges against you,” Aveline checked.

“And the charges against Fenris,” Hawke agreed.

Aveline sighed deeply.

“I could talk to him,” Hawke offered. “I have it on good authority that I’m very charming when I want to be.”

“He was just trying to kill you Hawke,” Aveline pointed out.

“Lots of people try to kill me,” Hawke said with a dismissive wave. “Many of my friends have tried to kill me. Even you’ve tried to kill me, Aveline, and you’re the sanest and most reasonable person ever.”

Dorian looked askance at Fenris, who shifted uncomfortably. Right then: that was a conversation they would have to have at a later date.

“Fine,” Aveline huffed. “He should still be waiting out by my office. Let’s go.”

Aveline left without unlocking the cell doors. Dorian was about to point this out when he heard a clicking noise from behind him and realized that Hawke had already picked the lock on her door. She headed to Fenris’ door to do the same, but before she reached it Fenris phased through the bars, an action that warped the Veil in a manner not unlike a Fade-step.

“Bloody show-off,” Hawke grumbled affectionately.

She and Merrill went on ahead, discussing the potential for a restaurant which served only confections, while he and Fenris trailed behind.

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Dorian asked. “You seem to have a routine.”

“This is only the second time since Hawke has become Champion,” Fenris told him. “The first time was the result of her attempts to get Isabela to acknowledge her.”

“And before she became Champion?” Dorian asked.

“More often,” Fenris replied. “After the Deep Road Expedition… it was months before we learned that Bethany had survived the Joining. And it was longer still before Bethany would write to Hawke directly. She was… inconsolable. That did not stop her from attempt to consol herself by introducing her fist to the face of any deserving person to cross her path.”

Dorian nodded sagely. “Ah, family,” he said. “What would we be without that?”

“Significantly happier, I expect,” Fenris replied.

“But not nearly as interesting.”

* * *

_These last three days, with Gereon and Felix visiting the Danarius estate in Vyrantium, have been some of the longest in his memory. They might actually be **the** longest, if you exclude his time in solitary. Danarius had wasted no time in ordering Dorian to get on his knees and suck and it wasn’t like he hadn’t know it was coming- Danarius had stuck the magic suppression collar on him four months ago now, he hasn’t yet figured out what he needs to do to get him to take it off again, and his excuses as to why he can’t cast have been growing increasingly thin- but still, he’d hoped-_

_Well. That’s his problem right there, isn’t it? He’d hoped._

_[Maker, I was feeling maudlin that day, wasn’t I?]_

_Specifically, he’d hoped that they wouldn’t find out any time soon, but it’s hardly like they could fail to learn of Dorian’s place after **that**._

_It wasn’t like Danarius had done anything outside of his usual tricks. That blowjob he’d been forced to give in front of Gereon and Felix had been the worst of it by far, but he’d just kept flicking Dorian between roles: “Kneel at my feet and eat only the food I feed you, Dorian. Come up here and explain the work you’ve been doing with Gereon for me, Dorian. You’d be much prettier with your shirt off, Dorian. I think you should change into your formal robes, we have guests for dinner Dorian. I’ll have to do much worse than shock you if you talk back again, Dorian. Felix was telling me there was a secret room in the blue library at the Circle of Vyrantium, is that true Dorian?” Switching so frequently between Dorian Pavus, Altus mage, and Danarius’ Dorian, prized catamite, had been utterly and completely exhausting and all he wants to do right now is curl up in bed and lick his wounds a little._

_Unfortunately, things aren’t quite over yet; Dorian had been scheduled to go with the Alexius men to the Circle of Vyrantium from the Danarius estate before their visit, and apparently that part of his itinerary still stands even though they know. So here he is now, staring blankly out the carriage windows, feeling drained and unmoored._

_[This is- I remember this as being a little happier when I’m awake. I suppose when I didn’t already know how it was going to end, it looked like it could go badly for me.]_

_Gereon, who had shut down after Danarius revealed what Dorian was, is sitting across from him. Felix, who had been and remains visibly distraught by the whole affair, is sitting beside him. At this point, he almost hopes that Gereon isn’t going to react badly more for Felix’s sake than his own._

_[It’s no fun, learning that your father isn’t the man you thought he was. I know that better than most.]_

_“Was that the last of the wards?” Gereon asks, his polite tone only slightly strained._

_“No,” Dorian replies. “The outermost wards are by the griffon statues, by the main road.”_

_“I see,” Gereon says._

_Dorian turns his attention back to the window and just… drifts for a time. He doesn’t fall asleep, but he’s not really paying the slightest bit of attention to things in the carriage. They pass by the griffon statues and Dorian pays it no mind until Gereon reaches over and touches his knee._

_[Merrill would probably adore those statues. I wish there was some way to show them to her without subjecting her to Tevinter.]_

_Dorian jerks away, and manages to make it look like he was merely straightening up. “Magister Alexius?” he asks._

_“That was the last of the wards?” Gereon asks again._

_“Yes.”_

_Gereon slumps forwards. “Oh thank the Maker,” he says hoarsely. “Thank the Maker- come here, let’s get that **thing** off of you.”_

_He reaches for Dorian’s collar, and Dorian jerks back without bothering to disguise the motion, his head hitting the wall behind his seat._

_Gereon’s face falls._

_“I- I appreciate the sentiment, but you really can’t do that,” Dorian manages. “He’ll know if you take it off.”_

_“So?” Felix asks. “Dorian, surely you can’t think we’d make you go back to Danarius?”_

_Dorian had never considered that they might do anything else. He’d been braced for Gereon to act like so many of his father’s peers have acted, like a switch had been flipped and Dorian was suddenly a thing rather than a person. The relief he should- and does- feel over getting to be treated like a person is completely overshadowed by the fact that, somehow, they still have no idea what’s going on._

_[Ah, that’s right, now I remember: I was completely unprepared for this conversation, because I’d stopped considering getting outside help to escape Danarius around the time my father explained my situation to me. It was just one of those things I couldn’t think about.]_

_“I think you have to,” Dorian says. It’s a strange moment, when he decides to talk two potential rescuers out of saving him, but he knows, with bone deep certainty, that if he does not return to Danarius as planned, it will make what is already an unending nightmare of an existence even worse. “You have no idea what he’s capable of.”_

_Felix and Gereon exchange a look Dorian can’t parse._

_[Hmm. That’s very similar to Hawke and Anders’ “remember Dorian hasn’t been free for even a year yet” look, come to think of it.]_

_“We saw how he’s treating you,” Felix reminds him gently, very gently, like he’s afraid the reminder will upset him._

_Dorian almost feels like laughing at the irony of it all. “What you saw is just the trunk of the elephant,” he explains. “How he treats me at all is just the tip of the trunk of the elephant. No, this has to stay on and I have to go back, or else.”_

_“Or else what?” Gereon demands. “What power could he possibly have over you-”_

_“The last time I tried to escape, he decimated his household as part of my punishment,” Dorian tell them. “Decimated- you know what that means? It means he had one out of every ten people killed, and if I try again, it’ll be one in five.”_

_Felix and Gereon stare at him in incomprehension._

_[This is painful to watch.]_

_“They’re good people,” Dorian explains. “A lot of them are friends, and I’ll not be providing Danarius with any reason to hurt them. He can come up with plenty all on his own without any action on my part.”_

_They still don’t get it._

_[Really. **They’re** good people- Felix is quite possibly the best person to ever be born an Altus- and they just can’t wrap their minds around slaves’ lives being worth that much suffering. Yet. I managed to bring them around eventually, with a lot of hand-holding on Gereon’s part.]_

_“To say nothing of what he’d do to someone who helped me,” Dorian continues, and he suddenly knows exactly what to say to make them back off. “He’d hurt Felix- you understand that, right?”_

_“He wouldn’t dare!” Gereon protests reflexively._

_“Why? Because you’re a magister? Because he’s a talented mage?” Dorian demands._

_“I- you-” Gereon flounders._

_Dorian presses his advantage. “I’m not just speaking about me. I’m stuck with him, but that doesn’t mean there haven’t been others. It would take very little for Danarius to come to view Felix as another pretty young thing for him to break.”_

_Gereon has already gone ashen-faced, but as the implications sink in, he turns downright green._

_“I’m sitting right here,” Felix protests._

_“And I’m asking you, as a friend, please, stay sitting there out of his reach,” Dorian pleads, turning to face him. “I have to watch him humiliate and brutalize and even kill people I care about all the time. Please, please, don’t end up being one of them.”_

_“So we’ll be careful,” Felix says, turning back to his father, who still looks one wide sway of the carriage away from being violently ill. “He’ll go back this time, but there’ll be other times. We can plan- if we tell Magister Pavus-”_

_Dorian actually does laugh at that, has to. It’s hollow and bitter and once he starts it takes him some time before he can stop._

_“You think he doesn’t know,” Dorian manages, when he’s calmed down enough to speak._

_“Dorian,” Gereon says, too calmly. “Dorian, Halward can’t know. He can’t- he wouldn’t stand for this. You’re his son.”_

_“Father arranged this.”_

_“No,” Gereon denies. “No, I don’t know what lies that- that **monster** has been telling you, but I swear-”_

_[He really couldn’t conceive of it, could he? Well- what was it he yelled at Father the next time they were at a gathering together? “I would welcome the Arishock into Minrathous with open arms, upon bent knees, before I allowed Danarius to touch my son.” Something along those lines. I wonder if I’ll get to relive eavesdropping in on that conversation. That was the high point of the entire year, I think.]_

_“He told me the truth, in this case,” Dorian explains. “And I didn’t believe him. That first fortnight I was convinced that I’d been kidnapped. Danarius told me again and again what had happened and he even brought evidence to back his claims, and I threw it right back in his face and then threw every sort of tantrum I could. Eventually, Father had to come and explain things to me himself.”_

_“No,” Gereon says, shaking his head as though to dislodge Dorian’s words from his mind. “No.”_

_“Father arranged the marriage for me, as was his right under Tevinter law, because Danarius was blackmailing him.”_

_“Why?” Gereon asks. “What could Danarius possibly have on him to allow- **nothing** can justify-”_

_“It’s bad,” Dorian says wearily. “It’s bad enough that he’s willing to let Danarius use me to chip away at the family’s good name, because at least then his precious reputation is still mostly intact. And no, I won’t tell you what it is.”_

_“ **Vishante kaffas** ,” Gereon swears fervently. _

_“If the knowledge of what Danarius was doing to me became widespread, rather than something known to only a few dozen magisters, it would also ruin his reputation,” Dorian continues. “He’s not going to help get me out- he has a vested interest in things continuing as they are. If I escape, he’ll come after me too.”_

_[Hm. I wonder if that’s still true. I didn’t escape, really, so much as I became the happiest widower ever, but it’s not like I’m behaving as I ought to. Maybe I should read those letters, just to make sure that he’s not going to send some poor sod to try and hit me over the head and drag me back to Tevinter in front of Hawke.]_

_“We can’t just do nothing!” Felix protests. “There has to be some way we can help.”_

_[What am I saying, that would be hilarious. She’d send their bodies back to Qarinus with a trophy proclaiming him to be “The Worst Father Ever” and a note telling him that his choice of prizes are to either stay away from me or else.]_

_“You do,” Dorian assures him. “You do help. My visits with you are immeasurably important- even a few days out of that house, out from under his thumb? It’s helpful beyond my ability to express.”_

_“There has to be some way we can help get you away from him for good,” Felix clarifies desperately._

_“This is only going to end when he’s dead,” Dorian says._

_Felix considers that in a very obvious way._

_“Please, don’t do anything rash,” Dorian begs. “Danarius is not an easy man to kill, you are unlikely to catch him by surprise, and even if you did, he would probably still win. He is paranoid, he is clever, and he is creative: there are wards on all his properties which defy imagination, he’s undergone blood magic rituals that give him impossible power and endurance, and he would bleed every slave in his possession, including me, dry before he would surrender. The only way he’s going to go down is with a lot of planning and no small amount of luck, you mark my words.”_

_[Or by being Fenris. Anything’s possible with Hawke at your side, after all.]_

_“You’ve thought about this,” Gereon says, surprised._

_“I’ve course I’ve thought about it,” Dorian snaps. “I’ve **tried** it. I’m not in this collar because he likes the way it brings out my eyes, I’m in it because he likes the way it prevents me from lighting him on fire.”_

_“Does he ever take it off?” Felix asks._

_“He hasn’t since he got it. It’s been about four months now,” Dorian replies._

_“And he **never** takes it off?” Gereon demands. “Not even to sleep, or to bathe?”_

_“It’s got an enchantment to prevent water damage,” Dorian explains. “And he seems to enjoy waking me up by yanking on it. And occasionally fastening it to things and then ‘forgetting’ about me overnight. I’ve had to sleep out in the gardens twice now.”_

_Felix makes a distressed noise, but Gereon seems to have gotten some of his footing back. “What did he use before the collar?” he asks._

_“Magebane, until I started building up a tolerance; alcohol and opiates, to make it difficult to concentrate, restraints to make it difficult to cast,” Dorian recites, tipping his head back. This is the sort of list he’s more comfortable giving to the ceiling than a friend. “He’s got all sorts of vile potions to take away your voice, or make it impossible to move, or worse. He’s put me under a blood thrall, at times.”_

_[No wonder he got the collar. That’s a lot of effort to go through just to bring one man to heel, isn’t it?]_

_“How many times?” Gereon demands._

_“Five,” Dorian answers. “Often enough to reassure himself that I’m properly terrified of him, and to remind me that he’s serious about the threat. The longest he had me under was perhaps four days, right after Seheron fell- I’d have jumped off the boat and joined Fenris, otherwise. The first time was also the first ‘demonstration of my place’ you’ve now seen.”_

_“And how many times has he done **that**?” Felix asks. _

_“It doesn’t happen terribly often,” Dorian assures him. “Perhaps seven or eight times a year.”_

_Felix makes a sort of wet, choked-off noise, and Dorian turns from the ceiling to face him. He is, Dorian notes with no small amount of alarm, crying._

_[Yes, that’s just as terrifying now as it was then.]_

_“No, Felix, don’t to that,” he says as soothingly as he can. “It’s- I’m fine, really.”_

_“No you’re not,” Felix choked out. “How can you say that? Nothing about this is fine!”_

_“Well,” Dorian says, because it’s not like he’s wrong. “Yes, you’re right, this is pretty awful, and I’m apparently too used to lying for him besides. But it’s not the end of the world. It’s livable. And I have no intention of dying like this unless I can take him down with me.”_

_“You don’t think he’ll kill you, then?” Gereon asks._

_“No,” Dorian says. “I’m valuable to him. I’m something he can use when he and Father are clashing over legislation, I’m something he can use when he feels like threatening anyone. The whole husband part of this mess is what makes him an Altus, and until he has a suitable heir that status is in jeopardy. So, for now at least, he’s unlikely to kill me.”_

_“It’s not like he’s going to have a suitable heir by you,” Gereon says. Felix is still crying a bit, and Dorian doesn’t know how to make him stop._

_“I certainly hope not!” Dorian scoffs._

_Gereon frowns. “Dorian, it’s impossible for either of you to get pregnant.”_

_Dorian half feels like laughing again. “As I've told you, you don’t know what he’s capable of. Believe me, if that’s what he wanted, I have no doubt he could come up with some kind of blood magic ritual to make it possible.”_

_They appear to be having trouble processing this, so Dorian moves things along. “But he doesn’t appear to be experimenting with that- and I’ve been checking, trust me- so honestly I think it’s more likely that he’ll have us adopt. Maybe Hadriana- or maybe he’ll have a child by Hadriana and adopt that. He likes her just about as much as he likes anyone as a person.”_

_[Not that that’s an especially high bar.]_

_“He doesn’t- experiment on you, though, does he?” Felix asks tremulously._

_“No, of course not, he can buy **non-contracti** by the dozen for that,” Dorian scoffs bitterly. “He’s only going to make me the subject of a blood magic ritual if he’s sure that I won’t be damaged beyond my usefulness by it.”_

_“But- I mean- he **can’t** -” Felix appears close to hyperventilating. _

_“It hasn’t happened yet, but that has more to do with the fact that he hasn’t figured out how to do anything that he wants to do to me without ruining me,” Dorian tells him. “It would spoil my pretty face if bits of liver started growing out of my nostrils.”_

_He was expecting that remark to lighten the mood a little. He was not expecting Felix to suddenly fling his arms around Dorian and start out-in-out sobbing._

_[Ludus would have laughed at that. Fenris would have made some kind of smart remark about becoming a liver abomination and maybe smirked a little. Eirene would have rolled her eyes told me to stop being disgusting while she was cooking.]_

_“ **Felix** ,” he says, bewildered. “I- please stop crying. I just told you, he’s not going to do it.”_

_“We could leave the country,” Gereon says, speaking very quickly in a low tone of voice. “The four of us. We’ll get Aurora and leave Tevinter tonight- go to Nevarra, perhaps. I have friends in the Mortalitasi, we would be welcomed there, and we could continue our work with ease.”_

_“No,” Dorian says firmly. He should tell them that they can go without him, that they **should** go without him and flee while Danarius is still relatively uninterested in House Alexius, but Maker forgive him, he can’t do it. If he gets to keep up his work with Gereon, if he gets to keep having a good reason to get out from under Danarius for even a few days here or there, then he wants it too badly to give it up. “I told you, I can’t leave. I have to go back.”_

_“Forget about the others,” Gereon orders urgently. “From the sound of things, he’s going to kill them anyway.”_

_“No,” Dorian says. It’s easy to dig his heels in on this issue- it amuses Danarius when he makes friends with the other slaves so he’s been allowed plenty of practice. “No, I won’t forget about them, and even if I did, do you really think he wouldn’t come after me?”_

_“Danarius is an isolationist,” Gereon says. “He has very few ties to any place that’s not Tevinter-”_

_“Father has enough for both of them,” Dorian interrupts. “They would cooperate if I went missing. They would come with some story about how you’d kidnapped me and put your hosts under a great deal of pressure, and then they would have the three of you killed and bring me right back home to my husband, and I would never be allowed a leash this long again.”_

_[Well, judging by how things went with Fenris, more than likely they would have been offered the chance to surrender me peacefully first. And I’d have accepted on their behalf, probably, unless we knew they were coming and had some kind of plan in place to kill him.]_

_Felix tightens his arms around him; Dorian pats him on the back a little, trying to calm him. He looks over to Gereon for help, but Gereon merely sits there, plainly stewing in uncomfortable thoughts._

_[Not half as uncomfortable as the one I’ve just had: would that have worked? Could we have gone to Nevarra and then just waited for him to come to us? He died easily enough in Kirkwall- I mean, none of us are Hawke, but if we knew to expect him, we could have hired some kind of mercenary company to help us.]_

_“Besides, he’s not as disinterested in the south as he used to be,” Dorian informs them._

_“How so?” Gereon demands._

_[He’d probably have sent Father in first, though. That could have gotten tricky. And he’d still have killed a fifth of his household, just for the form of the thing.]_

_“You remember how we went back to Seheron to try and find Fenris?” Dorian asks._

_Gereon nods._

_“We found him, but he managed to escape,” Dorian says, not without a bit of nerves. Everything else he’s told the Alexius family about Danarius could be taken as a form of flattery, but this is an embarrassment no matter how you phrase it. “He’s been killing every mercenary and slaver Danarius has sent after him, and the latest word is that he’s running around the Marches with some dispossessed noblewoman’s gang.”_

_[I’d honestly forgotten I used to think of Hawke like that. **Fasta vass** , I’d thought her to be the worst sort of thug, didn’t I?]_

_“And?” Gereon asks._

_“And the Maker will smile upon mankind again before he lets Fenris go,” Dorian says. “The mercenaries and the slavers he sends now are just to make sure he knows where Fenris is, rather than any real hope that they’ll be able to capture him. He’ll start sending apprentices soon- Hadriana, even. He’ll go himself, if he thinks that will work. And Fenris? As highly as Danarius prizes ‘his little wolf’, he doesn’t need Fenris with him the same way he needs me- Fenris was a status symbol, not anything that conferred actual status onto him. If I escaped too- it would be bad. Really bad.”_

_Felix has calmed down enough to straighten up and say “So you want us to just send you back?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Felix looks so- and suddenly Dorian can’t do this anymore, he wants to take it all back, just let Gereon take the collar off and deal with his husband and his father for him and not have to deal with any of it anymore._

_[A bit ironic, that, considering what we were working on.]_

_“No,” he corrects himself. “No, that’s not what I want.”_

_He buries his face on the palm of his hand and just breathes for a moment._

_“Well, good,” Felix says eventually. “We’ll-”_

_“But it’s the only option,” Dorian interrupts. He’s too tired for it to come out anything less than harsh. “I’ve told you, this isn’t over until he’s dead, and I don’t know how to make that happen yet.”_

_“Yet?” Gereon repeats. Dorian sneaks a look at him from between his fingers, and nearly sags further down in relief. He’s managed to convince Gereon that this is what’s best for Felix: he can stop pushing now._

_“Yet,” Dorian confirms. He straightens himself out a bit- this is doable. As long as Gereon can be held back from doing anything rash, and Felix doesn’t start crying again, he can do this. “I know more about his work than he thinks I do, but not enough to take him out.”_

_He suddenly has an idea, and he turn to Felix. “If you really want to help, here’s what you can do: cultivate an interest in the elves.”_

_“What?”_

_“Most of his ‘innovations’, from the wards around his estates to Fenris’ brands, aren’t innovations at all. They’re based off Ancient Elvhenan- he’s obsessed with them, he’s constantly pouring over books and artifacts from Old Arlathan and he even writes his notes in elven. If you were learning it, I could learn it. Then I could understand what he was doing- what he was planning to do, or trying to do, even- which would be very helpful.”_

_[And apparently sacrilegious to the Dalish.]_

_“I’ll start look for tutors,” Gereon says._

_“No,” Dorian says. “You can’t bring anyone into this that you wouldn’t trust to hold a dagger to Felix’s throat, first of all, and secondly, if this doesn’t look like a nature shift in interests he’ll suspect that you intend to move against him and that I’m helping you.”_

_“I’m still sitting right here,” Felix reminds them._

_“Can you do that?” Dorian asks him. “It will take time away from things you actually enjoy.”_

_“Who says I don’t enjoy elven?” Felix asks._

_“Have you ever tried learning elven?”_

_“No,” Felix admits. “So who says it won’t be enjoyable?”_

_[You know, I’ve really got find some way of telling Hawke about Felix and Bethany. I doubt she’d let the opportunity to be an overprotective big sister slip by her, but once that passed she’d probably approve.]_

_“How would you recommend we did it, then?” Gereon asks._

_“Carefully. Say that you’re doing some kind of survey on the different ways different cultures conceptualized the Fade, then narrow it down to pre-Andrastean cultures, and then the elves,” Dorian advises. “Then, if things could go from there… at worst, he’ll assume that I passed on something he said about the elves, not that you’re doing this for my benefit.”_

_“Is that-” Felix struggles to find the words. “Will he get angry at you- will you be… punished?”_

_“He doesn’t need-” Dorian thinks better of completing that sentence when Felix’s eyes start to shine again. “ **Venhedis**. Felix, no, I absolutely forbid you from crying, if you start crying again you’re going to set me off and then I’ll be utterly useless, and we don’t want that, do we? Let me worry about me, I’m good at that.”_

_“Alright,” Felix agrees, only slightly mutinously._

_The carriage lapses into silence. Dorian turns back to the window, and at some point he falls asleep, waking when Felix clasps him on the shoulder to let him know they’ve arrived._

_[Did I just dream about being asleep? **Why?** ]_

_House Alexius has a townhouse on the Circle of Vyrantium’s property- privileges of Gereon’s tenure as a Senior Enchanter there. Aurora Alexius is waiting to greet them in the foyer, her pleased smile fading as she took in the expressions on their faces._

_“What’s happened?” she asks._

_Gereon turns to Dorian, who nods. He’s tired, and he has no idea how to explain what’s going on: Gereon can tell her himself._

_“Come with me into the study, darling,” Gereon says. “This is going to take some time.”_

_He ushers her away, and Felix turns to Dorian. “I’m going to get changed- Vasil will show you to your rooms. Do you think you’ll be joining us for dinner?”_

_“I’m not sure,” Dorian says. He’s exhausted, but the thought of disrupting House Alexius further makes him feel even worse. “Let’s see how things go with your parents first.”_

_“Understandable,” Felix says, though he clearly didn’t understand at all. He leaves for his rooms, and Dorian follows the butler to his._

_“They’ve found out, I take it,” Vasil says, once they’ve left the bustle of the front of the house. It’s not as surprising a sentiment as it might once have been- he’s long suspected that the staff of House Alexius at least have an inkling as to the nature of the position Danarius has forced him into. They’ve been… kind, in ways that weren’t often directed towards social betters._

_[The slaves always figured it out first- it’s one of those things that became more and more obvious as time went on. I wonder if I’ve picked up any of that. If maybe one of these days I’ll be accompanying Hawke to some noble’s estate and look at the servants and just be able to tell that their employer considers themselves to be their owner.]_

_“Yes,” Dorian confirms. “Danarius made it… very obvious.”_

_Vasil nods in sympathy. “They took it well, if you’re still in the guest suite,” he points out._

_“That’s true. They’re-” he cuts himself off, before he can start extolling the virtues of the man’s owners to him._

_“There are worse masters,” he finishes for Dorian._

_[Good old Vasilius Oberon.]_

_Dorian nods. “Also true.”_

_They reach his room, and Vasil helps him unpack his things. That had been another clue- that he’d stopped being waved off when he started doing things for himself. It’s a good thing too, in this case: he’s got an entire week before he has to go back, and consequently, there are a lot of things._

_“Do you mind if I ask how you knew?” he inquires._

_“We could tell something was amiss. You were flinching, you did too much for yourself, you were too personal in your interactions with us. We asked around for gossip with your people- they would confirm that you weren’t being treated well, but wouldn’t say more than that,” Vasil tells him. “But the collar was a dead giveaway.”_

_Dorian laughs. “Well, when you phrase it like that, I’m surprised it took so long for them to find out.”_

_Vasil smiles, because it’s not really surprising at all. Dorian is an Altus, he cannot legally be enslaved, and therefore he is not a slave. It’s but one line of logic in a lengthy mantra of sophistry that keeps the Alti so entrenched in themselves, and makes things so difficult to change in Tevinter._

_“Do you think they’ll behave differently now?” Vasil asks him._

_“Towards me, or towards slaves in general?”_

_Vasil pauses, which is an answer in and of itself._

_“Is there something that you’d like to see change?” Dorian asks, straightening. House Alexius aren’t cruel to their slaves, or **unnecessarily** demeaning, but they’re still considered property. That’s not a good situation to live in. _

_“Potentially,” Vasil allows. He knows exactly what he wants to be done, Dorian can tell, but he’s cautious, as most slaves who have made it to his age are. He’ll want to test the waters thoroughly before he says anything potentially incriminating._

_[This all worked out for him rather better than he’d dared hope. He nearly had a heart attack when he was freed.]_

_“Well,” Dorian says, likewise watching carefully to gauge Vasil’s reaction to his words. “Take some time to think things over, discuss it with anyone you trust. Things are bound to be weird for the next little while at least. If Gereon didn’t react by immediately putting me in my place, I don’t think Aurora will, but still, it’s probably for the best that things be allowed to settle first.”_

_Vasil nods: Dorian’s said the right thing, it seems. “I would approach Young Master Felix first, with such a thing, if I were to approach any of them,” he suggests._

_“Probably for the best,” Dorian agrees, giving himself a little mental slap in the hopes that this time, the reminder that simply because most slaves are uneducated doesn’t mean that they’re unintelligent will stick._

_[It took me such a long time to get rid of that presumption, even with all the time I spent with Ludus- and it’s apparently taken him less than six months to learn to read and write Tevene and is learning Trade twice as fast. Mae is newly appalled by the fact that Danarius had him working as gardener.]_

_“I’m going to take a nap before dinner, I think,” Dorian says, and once he acknowledges it he can’t ignore how bloody **tired** he is. _

_“Shall I make it known that you’ve turned in for the night?” Vasil asks._

_“Yes, please,” Dorian says, relieved by the offer. “Thank you.”_

_He’s asleep before the elf has even left the room._

_[And now I’m dreaming about being asleep again. Great. Lovely. This is not at all irritating and useless.]_

* * *

Dorian had a routine now, when he was taking a meal with Fenris: a hot shower and a cup of tea to help him calm down enough so he wasn’t going to smother the man with his enthusiasm, and then he progresses to changing into his clothes and putting on his face.

They alternated who chose where to go, but Fenris generally came to pick him up at the hotel lobby. Occasionally they would meet at wherever it was they were dinning, and they never went to the mansion. Which was fine- he didn’t want to be in Fenris’ home if Fenris didn’t want him to be there, that moment of drunken angst-induced weakness aside- but it also meant that one of them generally ended up making small talk with the receptionist while waiting the other to show up, and depending on who was there that could take some time.

Today, it was Dorian’s turn to pick a place to eat, and Fenris’ turn to make small talk. The woman running the desk today was one of the less chatty ones- Varric claimed she was one of seven cousins of his named Helga, but Dorian suspected that was bullshit- and she was used to their routine, and so waved Fenris off in his direction as soon as she noticed Dorian had made it downstairs.

“Fenris!” he called out. “I’ve found a little seafood place on-”

“I don’t want to go to a seafood place,” Fenris said.

Dorian blinked. _That_ wasn’t part of their routine.

“I- okay,” he said. “What do you want to do then?”

Fenris stepped right into Dorian’s personal space, and Dorian found himself taking half a step back before he could remind himself that it was pretty unlikely that Fenris would want to hurt him. Fenris stayed where he was with that half-step’s distance between them, looking conflicted.

“Fenris?” he asked.

“I-” Fenris seemed to come to a decision, nodding sharply to himself. Then he wound his arms over Dorian’s shoulders and kissed him.

Fenris kissed him. Fenris was still kissing, as a matter of fact. Dorian was being kissed by Fenris. That was a thing that was happening.

Fenris. Kissing. Dorian.

It was such a shock that his first response was to simply… not. He merely stood there, his hands held limply at his sides, mouth slightly open in surprise, unable to process what was happening let alone how it had happened. When his brain finally did manage to accept the reality of the situation, the first thing that registered was a sense of indignation. There were _reasons_ he’d never so much as allowed himself to speculate as to whether or not Fenris was even attracted to men in general. Reasons! Multiple reasons! Reasons in the plural! None of which he could remember right now and for the love of the Maker _why was Fenris pulling away_?

He’d started reaching up towards Fenris when the man stepped back out of Dorian’s personal space: his hand went to his own lips instead. He stared, unable to articulate any of what he was feeling. If he tried speaking now, it would be less words that came out and more exclamations of surprise: Wow. _Eia_. Ah. _Euax_. Woo. _Vaha_. Oh.

“I…apologize,” Fenris said after a long moment in which Dorian continued to stare at him. He looked anguished. “That was-”

“Don’t,” Dorian said, finding his words again. He moved towards him: this was… far beyond what he had dared hope to have with Fenris. He hadn’t even been sure Fenris was comfortable with being around him, let alone that he wanted Dorian: but if he _was_ comfortable, if he _did_ want, and this _was_ something Dorian could want in return… “Don’t you dare apologize for that.”

Slowly, carefully, he reached out to cup Fenris’ cheek- one of the few places left unmarked by lyrium.

Fenris leaned minutely into the touch. “Dorian,” he said, his voice rumbling against the palm on his hand. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” Dorian replied. “Do you-”

Fenris kissed him again, which was all the answer he needed.

‘Kiss back,’ he reminded himself. He could barely hear his own thought over the roar of blood in his ears- it was like a tidal wave crashing on the shore, like a wall being demolished, and suddenly he didn’t need the reminder because he wanted, _oh Maker_ , how he wanted this. He’d never desired anyone quite like he desired Fenris just then. It was so strong, he wasn’t sure he had ever truly desired anyone before at all.

They stood there, kissing, until the blood pounding in his ears receded enough for him to realize that there was clapping going on. Dorian broke the kiss, craning his neck to see.

The receptionist was standing on her chair, whooping, her enthusiasm inducing several of the other patrons milling around the lobby of the Theoxenia to join in the applause.

“Uh?” Dorian managed. There went his words again.

“It’s about damn time!” she yelled.

Dorian exchanged looks with Fenris who, mercifully, looked as taken aback as he felt.

“I think we should dine in tonight,” Dorian said, struggling to regain some poise and indicating the stairs.

“Excellent idea,” Fenris said, already moving towards them.

The walk up to his room was strange. Dorian felt light, effervescent- like he had when the collar had finally come off. This was something he’d never let himself imagine happening. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, now that Fenris had kissed him and they were walking into his hotel suite- where, he was just beginning to allow himself to hope, they would do a lot more than kiss. Thankfully, Fenris seemed to have some idea what to do. He barely let Dorian close the door before he was crowding him against it, his expression beseeching. Dorian pulled him in for another kiss, every inch of him warm, melting where Fenris pressed against him. He could scarcely believe it was real. He could scarcely believe it was happening. He wanted this more badly than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

It was real, though. It was Fenris’ thick, downy hair between his fingers, Fenris’ leather pauldron under his hand, Fenris’ thigh pressing between his own, Fenris’ hands with their rough swordsman’s calluses and smooth lyrium lines moving under his shirt, Fenris’ teeth on his bottom lip. It was happening. He could work his hand under the collar of Fenris’ shirt and touch the smooth skin of his shoulder. He could rut against his leg, moan at the sparks the motion sent shooting from his belly, shiver at Fenris’ answering growl. He could pull Fenris closer, so close there was barely an inch of them that didn’t touch. He could lick his way inside Fenris’ mouth.

It was real, and happening, and Dorian was dizzy with it. He was drunk- drowning, even, in the best possible way. Fenris was no less affected. He was the one who stopped their kissing, and though Dorian couldn’t help but making a wordless noise of protest, he was content to stay there, foreheads pressed together, and catch his breath, feeling Fenris’ hands against his ribs as they heaved.

“Dorian, I-” Maker, his voice had gone even deeper. Rougher. Dorian shivered again. He could hear Fenris lick his lips; feel his shaky, exhaled breath, like a laugh; was too close to actually see his mouth. “It seems like it should be obvious, what we do now. But I don’t know.”

It was a question. On the one hand, it was good to know that Dorian wasn’t the only one feeling slightly lost; on the other, that meant that he needed to come up with an answer. What did they do now? With Danarius, the answer would have been ‘whatever you want’; before him, the answer would have been a no less sure ‘whatever can be done quickly and quietly’. Those were the only answers he’d ever given, and they crowded out what he wanted to say: ‘I’m going to make you feel so good. I’m going to give you everything.’

“We’ll have to make it up as we go along, I think,” was how he eventually replied. “My first suggestion would be the bed.”

Fenris leaned down and nuzzled his throat. “Mine would be to get rid of our clothes,” he rumbled. Dorian could feel the vibrations from his voice in his bones. He had no idea how he was still standing upright.

“Both,” he managed. “We should do both.”

It was wonderful. It wasn’t perfect, no, but still wonderful, _wondrous_ even though they spent much of their time fumbling and learning. They weren’t unfamiliar with one another, exactly, but Dorian categorically refused to draw on those memories. _That_ had been a matter of Danarius’ pleasure, and he and Fenris had merely been the two puppets chosen to act out his fantasies. _This_ was theirs, for the two of them alone, and they had to figure it out for themselves.

Fenris forgot to take off his boots before getting to his clothes- Dorian laughed, which Fenris called unfair seeing as Dorian had tripped over his own smalls. The hotel’s cleaning service meant that he didn’t need to worry about whether or not his sheets were clean, but his worry over whether they would overbalance any of the precariously stacked book towers scattered around turned out to be well-placed, and the book towers themselves decidedly less so. _You’re a menace._ **_And you’re ridiculous, come here Dorian._**

Dorian, as it turned out, couldn’t stand to feel hands on his neck, but lips and teeth? _Yes, please_. Fenris didn’t mind his markings being touched, so long as they weren’t deliberately traced. He was alright with Dorian laying on top of him, so long as Dorian was amenable to having Fenris’ hands wound tightly through his hair, and letting him tug Dorian away from places he didn’t want touched. **_Good?_** _More than._ There was a spot just above of Fenris’ left hip where he was ticklish. Scrapping his teeth over it made him laugh, made the muscles in his abdomen quiver under his mouth. Dorian hadn’t known that about him before.

Fenris was loud in bed. Dorian hadn’t known that either, until he had his lips wrapped around his cock and Fenris _shrieked_ out a filthy, adoring mixture of Tevene and Trade. His hands twisted in the sheets- Dorian reached up, intending to guide one back to his head, but Fenris grabbed hold of his and wouldn’t budge. They stayed like that until Fenris came, swearing that Dorian was so perfect at this that it was a form of blasphemy worth damnation in the Void.

Dorian crawled back up the bed so that they were laying flush together. Fenris still wouldn’t let go of his hand.

“My turn,” he panted, and started kissing his way down Dorian’s neck and chest. Dorian leaned back against the pillows; Fenris pinned his hips down on the bed. It didn’t take much more than that. Dorian was so far gone at that point that a stiff breeze blowing in the right direction could have finished him off. _Fenris_ blowing him seemed almost too much.

So, it was wonderful. Really, utterly, wonderful, and Dorian hadn’t panicked at all. Still, there were things they could improve upon, and things they had yet to try.

Assuming this was the sort of thing they were going to do more than once.

 _Fasta vass_ , and they were in his hotel room, too. It wasn’t like he could _ask_ Fenris without it sounding like he was kicking the man out. He grimaced, scrubbing both his hands over his face. A third hand belonging to Fenris flopped against his ear, and he turned to face the man.

“Stop that,” Fenris said, eyes narrowed and glowing faintly in the murky light.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking.”

Dorian snorted. “Ah, yes, my terrible habit of _thinking_.” After a moment, he added, quietly enough that Fenris could ignored it if he wished, “I have no intention of stopping, so you’re just going to have to get used to it.”

Fenris hummed. “I can do that, I suppose, provided you come closer.”

He stretched out an arm, wrapping it around Dorian’s shoulders as Dorian rested his head against his collarbone. Fenris was a cuddler, he realized delightedly- that was new information as well.

“You drive a hard bargain, _amatus_ ,” he murmured, and then blinked at the word. He could add that to the list too, he supposed- he hadn’t known that old dream was still in him.

There was just enough light to make out Fenris’ answering smile- part of a small, soft expression Dorian hadn’t seen him make before.

‘I get to do this again,’ he thought, and drifted off with the feel of Fenris’ arm around him.

* * *

_Dorian has been locked in this room for a fortnight now, or near enough, and things have settled into a routine._

_[Is this..?]_

_Mostly, there are long, terrible hours of boredom: he can’t really go anywhere, the room is tiny, and there are no windows, so his only recourse is the torrid penny dreadfuls left on the mantel piece. This monotony is broken up by thrice-daily trips into the bathroom for bathing, drinking and other necessities, where Fenris watches his every move like a hawk. During the second visit to the bathroom, some other slaves with come into his prison and change the sheets: Danarius comes to visit him twice daily, one after the sheets have been changed, and another time after his last visit to the bathroom._

_[Blessed Andraste, it is.]_

_During his first visit, he gives Dorian a choice: he can suck Danarius off in exchange for a meal, or he can continue to be stubborn and not be fed. He doesn’t get a choice about whether or not he’ll be violated during Danarius’ second visit. Danarius merely has Fenris arrange Dorian in whatever manner has caught his fancy, and then he **takes**. _

_He’d been fed the first day, as a matter of courtesy, or so Danarius had put it. Dorian had held out for three days after that, before hunger had compelled him to his knees. He’d promised himself that he’d hold out for four days after that, but had only lasted two. He’d held out for three days again, and had then decided that eating every other day was a reasonable balance between necessity and pride._

_Then an opportunity to escape, or get some sort of message to his father had failed to present itself in a timely fashion, he had taken matters into his own mouth, and attempted to bite Danarius’ cock off._

_It hadn’t work. The action probably caused Dorian to experience more pain than Danarius did._

_[Talk about adding insult to injury. Speaking of, do I have to relive this tonight? Can’t I do this some other time, when I’ve **not** just successfully managed to have sex with someone I care a great deal about? I don’t want to be dreaming about this when odds are pretty good that I’m still in bed with Fenris.]_

_He’d had Dorian beaten. Actually had him beaten, had him suspended from the ceiling with his ankles lashed to a weight to pull his body taut and had lashed him head to toe with a wet leather strap. It hadn’t broken the skin, he didn’t think, but the pain had been… indescribable._

_[This is terrible.]_

_He hadn’t even needed to render Dorian immobile in any fashion that night. Movement had been agonizing, and Dorian could do nothing but lay there as Danarius had Fenris fuck him, watching intently and offering his sick commentary in lieu of participating that night. He’d passed out at some point: too much pain and too little food made staying conscious harder than it should have been._

_And now? Now, Dorian is awake. His injuries are healed, there’s a light breakfast sitting on the nightstand, and there are clothes. They make him look like he works in a bathhouse, but they’re the first articles of clothing he’s had to wear since this started. There’s still magebane in his system, but not enough to render him woozy- just enough to prevent him from casting._

_The parts of him which aren’t either panicking or attempting to contain his panic are a little impressed. This is easily the most terrifying thing Danarius has done to him yet, purely because it doesn't make any sense._

_[Emphasis on the yet.]_

_He’s more than a bit afraid to touch the food- what if it’s poisoned? But on the other hand, it’s not like he got a meal after attempting to perform an emergency penectomy on Danarius with his teeth, so he’s **starving**._

_He decides to eat just one piece of fruit, and wait a while, and if that doesn’t cause him to vomit or anything he’ll eat the rest._

_He starts with a pomelo quarter. It doesn’t do anything untoward, except making him paradoxically hungrier. He’s dithering back and forth as to whether or not it’s been enough time for him to eat the rest of it- has the impression that it takes an hour to be sure, and it’s been at most a quarter of that since he ate- when the door opens._

_There is an immediate litany of things which he should have done to prepare for this inevitable meeting that runs through Dorian’s mind. He should have laid a trap, should have fashioned some kind of weapon, should have been poised and waiting by the door to make a run for it-_

_But it’s not Danarius who enters the room. It’s Father._

_[Can I wake up please? I was too distracted to take one of Anders’ sleeping draughts before I fell asleep tonight- can we just stop this now before things get worse?]_

_“Father?” Dorian doesn’t trust his eyes._

_“Dorian,” Father replies._

_Dorian launches himself at his father and buries his face in the front of his robes._

_[No, don’t do that.]_

_Father’s arms close around him, holding him close. It’s a good thing to- his relief is so powerful there are spots dancing in his vision._

_This is it. He’s been rescued. It’s all over now._

_[He’s not on your side.]_

_“Is he dead?” Dorian asks._

_[He was never on your side.]_

_Father doesn’t answer. Instead there’s a timid knock on the doorframe._

_“Master Danarius would like to know if you’re staying for dinner, Magister Pavus,” says one of the slave girls Dorian sometimes catches a glimpse of when she takes away the dirty bedclothes._

_[Her name was Vesela. She’s about fourteen here: two years from now, she’s going to develop a bit of a crush on you. You’ll try to gently dissuade her, Danarius will notice that she’s pretty and of age, and he’ll fuck her half to death. Two days after he tires of her, you’ll walk into your rooms to find her hanging from the rafters, and I still don’t know if she committed suicide or Danarius just wanted to make some kind of point.]_

_“I have yet to decide,” Father replies._

_Dorian stares at him in confusion. The slave girl curtsies, and leaves._

_[And she’s not going to be the only one, either. You’ve got a good half-dozen other such incidents to look forward to. And Father’s going to leave you to them. Father is going to spend considerable time and effort trying to justify that- what happens to you especially, but he’ll even try to make Danarius out to be a person with virtues he can admire.]_

_“Let’s sit down, Dorian,” Father says, and bereft of anything better to do Dorian sits down on the edge of the bed._

_“I don’t understand,” is the first thing he manages to vocalize._

_[And it’ll never be clear exactly why.]_

_“What has your husband explained about the situation?”_

_It is perhaps the worst possible thing he could have said, so it takes Dorian a few moments to process that he’s actually said it._

_[There will be justifications on top of rationalizations on top of excuses on top of outright lies and he still will never be able to explain himself.]_

_“Beg pardon?” he says. “My **what**?”_

_“Husband,” Father repeats. It looks like the word physically pains him._

_“…what are you saying?” Dorian demands. “You-this-”_

_“What has he explained?”_

_[Not that there could be any kind of satisfactory explanation to this. But, still: it would be nice to know for sure where things went wrong.]_

_“He’s explained that you and mother had me married to him, an explanation I dismissed as the delusional ravings of a deranged lunatic,” Dorian snaps._

_“It’s true, Dorian. You are married to Danarius.”_

_For the second time in his life, Dorian experiences the terrible sensation of his mind skittering in the face of incomprehensible horror._

_“What- **why** -” Dorian splutters. “He’s a man!”_

_“You have stated a preference for such.”_

_[I tried, you know. I tried so hard for you. Even the whoring was to try and make myself fit- I was hoping to fuck it out of my system so I could go on and marry in a state of numbness like you wanted me to, like everyone else does. And it didn’t work. Nothing worked. I'm still me, and not the legacy you wanted.]_

_“Preference?” Dorian repeats numbly, before giving himself a little shake. “Do you know what he’s done?”_

_[Even Danarius didn’t change me. Years of abuse- from him, on his orders, from other magisters- and years of hearing it justified by the fact of what I am, and it didn’t change me. I still am attracted to men: Kai, Zevran, Fenris… **Kaffas** , I am currently in bed with my husband’s very masculine executioner, and really couldn’t be happier about it.]_

_The silence his father answers him with thunders, and Dorian cannot bear it. “Why would you agree to this?”_

_“It was the best option available,” Father tells him sadly._

_[Maybe that’s what I should write. ‘Dear Father: I’m still an invert, and am currently surrounded by people who make my sexual deviancy seem positively normal. One of the people I regularly associate with is Fenris, who you may recall as Danarius’ bodyguard. More recently, he’s given me the spectacular gift of widowerhood. We’re also having sex. This is easily the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life, please don’t inflict yourself on my life any further, you’ll only ruin it. More love than I should probably feel for you at this point, Dorian.’]_

_Dorian gapes: at his father, at the bed, at the mantelpiece, at the hook in the ceiling he’d been suspended from just yesterday and the locked cabinets along the far wall that hold all manner of restraints and other implements, and then back at him father again._

_This is- it can’t be happening. Maybe the fruit is drugged?_

_[ **Fasta vass** , this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life.]_

_But Father had seemed solid when he hugged him, and his robes are creased as they are after several hours of travel, and Dorian can’t imagine hallucinating such details. He pinches the inside of his wrist, just to check that he’s awake._

_“Compared to what?” he croaks finally, after exhausting all other options._

_[I mean, yesterday I went with the guard on a raid. I killed twelve people, I got this awful gash on my forehead, and somebody’s entrails ended up in my boot, so I had to squelch my half-blind way through the sewers so I could get the abomination apostate to heal me. It was disgusting and probably unhealthy and definitely violent, and apparently my standards for happy are just that low.]_

_“Your- Danarius, he found out something. Something that could destroy House Pavus,” his father says carefully._

_“And this won’t?”_

_[I mean, there’s Fenris now, probably- and everyone else too, of course, but especially Fenris. No one is raping me anymore. My magic is unbound. I’m Dorian’s Dorian again, and I can now talk to people without being afraid that Danarius is going to do something unspeakable to them if he catches me acting friendly towards them.]_

_“We’ll lose standing, but not be destroyed,” his father replies._

_“What-” Dorian is in very really danger of bursting into tears. “What could he possibly-”_

_[ **Venhedis** , my standards are so low they’re practically squatting in Darktown.]_

_“It- you must understand,” Father says. “It was a matter of last resort, only to be used if all else failed.”_

_“What was it?” Dorian repeats urgently._

_“You were very adamant that you would not marry, and I feared that if you continued down the path you were on, it might be the only solution.”_

_[It’s entirely your fault, Father: you and Danarius. I had exacting standards for happiness as a young man, and you ruined it. Good work! Well done!]_

_“Solution to what?”_

_“I went looking for a blood magic ritual, for you. To fix your problem. So that you might marry and produce an heir-”_

_[Of course, if I wasn’t trying to act in accordance with ‘exacting standards’ I probably wouldn’t have been so unhappy.]_

_“You-” Dorian’s mind skitters again._

_“Only as a last resort,” Father stresses, as though that somehow makes things less horrible. “Only if all else failed.”_

_[It would have failed, you know. Or do you? I have some idea of what it takes to bring me to heel in any kind of long-term fashion, and quite frankly you don’t have the stomach for it, Father.]_

_Dorian can’t respond. He just **can’t** , at all. _

_[Not that that’s a bad thing, necessarily.]_

_“That would not make much difference if word were to get out,” his father continues. “The fact that I sought such a ritual in the first place would be enough to ruin us.”_

_“You hate blood magic,” Dorian feels obliged to point out. “The last resort of the weak mind.”_

_“Exactly.”_

_[Maybe that’s what I should write. ‘Dear Father: I recently had cause to remember the conversation we had regarding the circumstances surrounding the wedding, and I just want you to know that I think you would have done it. I would have driven you to, I’m sure you’d say, and you’d be wrong, just as you were wrong to marry me to Danarius, just as you were wrong to consider changing me, even as a last resort. I suppose I should consider myself lucky, that Danarius swooped in with his blackmail before things could progress in that point. Whatever you might have turned me into would likely have been permanent, and now that Danarius is dead it’s all over.’]_

_He meant it as in ‘that’s why it would be so devastating if word got out’ rather than ‘I was wrong’ and the moment Dorian can process this he turns on his father with a snarl. “How could you?”_

_“Danarius found out. This was his price: with his marriage to you grants him the status of an Altus, and the right to form his own House.”_

_[It’s over in theory, at least, I said to myself as a distraction from reliving said conversation regarding the circumstances surrounding the wedding.]_

_“That- this can’t be-”_

_Father reaches over to squeeze his shoulder and Dorian shoots off the bed. “Don’t touch me!”_

_“Dorian, please, don’t be so dramatic- this is hard enough-”_

_“Don’t be so dramatic?” Dorian demands. “Do you understand what you’ve done? What he’s done?”_

_“You seem well-treated.”_

_[Oh, I just realized: that’s why I was healed and given food and clothes. It was so Father thought I was being well-treated, and could therefore justify his lack of a rash response.]_

_“Seem well-” Dorian can’t even finish the repetition. He’ll start laughing. He’ll start to cry again. “I’m being held prisoner! He’s- he’s made- he’s **forced** -”_

_Dorian can’t finish the thought either. He leans heavily against the wall for support._

_“It seemed like the only option, at the time.”_

_“At the time.” He’s lost the ability to do more than parrot back his father’s words: he’s too busy scrambling to understand that Danarius hadn’t been lying- that Dorian had been given to him.That Dorian's family ultimately judged him to be of lesser importance than the reputation of House Pavus.  
_

_“This is a girl- from a good family, if a bit odd. Her parents have agreed to the wedding. We can leave here, obtain an annulment, I will resign my seat in the Magisterium, and Danarius can say what he likes about me. The legacy of House Pavus will be secured.”_

_“What? Father, you can’t expect me to- to-”_

_“If you don’t feel capable, we can still perform the blood ritual.”_

_[Dear Father: Did you even realize how threatening you sounded when you said that, or did it seem rather more magnanimous in your head? Were you aware how much you were asking me to take on faith, especially after you’d just shattered it? Do you realize what you did?]_

_Dorian can’t. There are so many things he wants to say right now: I trusted you, I thought you came to save me, I thought you **wanted** to save me, do you even care what Danarius does to me as long as he keeps it behind closed doors, **how could you**?_

_[How could you?]_

_“Get out,” Dorian barks._

_“Dorian, I-”_

_“No. I don’t want to hear anything else, I don’t want- just get out, and take your ‘last resort’ with you.”_

_Father leaves. Dorian regrets it the moment the door clicks shut behind him, leaving him alone again._

_[Don’t bother replying, I won’t open any letters from you. I suspect I already know what your answers are, and I don’t want my suspicions confirmed. Give my best to mother. Your legacy, Dorian Pavus.]_

_He sinks back down on the bed, buries his face in his hands, and tries not to weep._

_It’s some indeterminable time later that he looks up to find Danarius standing in the doorway, watching him._

_“It might have destroyed your mind, you know,” he says. “Performing blood magic to change you permanently in that way would almost certainly have had side effects. You would have been an entirely different person after he was done- and I don’t just mean your homophilia.”_

_[He had to bring the medical terminology into it, didn’t he? Like he was going to strap me down in his laboratory and finish the work Father hadn’t quite started yet.]_

_Dorian’s mind is too tired to skitter, and far, far too tired to process what he is saying. Danarius sighs, and comes to sit next to Dorian on the bed, reaching out a hand. Dorian shrinks away, but not far enough to avoid having Danarius card his fingers through the hair just above the nape of his neck. He eyes the door, which is still open, with something like dread: he could run, probably, but what then?_

_“That would have been a shame,” Danarius continues. “I did do some research into you, you know- your tutors have any number of scathing things to say about your lack of respect, your current academy is considering kicking you out for poor attendance, and yet you’ve won every duel you’ve ever fought in, and published half a dozen papers about schools of magic people devote lifetimes to trying to understand. It would have been such a shame to lose that resource.”_

_Dorian suddenly understands what this is: this is Danarius trying to justify himself, trying to convince Dorian that he is right, just as his father had tried to do._

_It takes all he has not to laugh._

_“Not that I expect you to thank me yet,” Danarius says wryly. “I understand that this has been hard on you. I apologize for the way you’ve been treated thus far- I honestly thought the transition would be easier for you to take this way.”_

_Dorian can’t process that any more than he can process anything else that’s been said to him today: it seems like it’s to be sudden flashes of insight or a great big fog of confusion, with little middle ground._

_“What do you want?” he asks._

_He’s braced for something sordid, but he’s also so wrong-footed to begin with that the surprise barely registers when Danarius says “Join me downstairs for dinner. You must be famished.”_

_Dorian looks over at the mostly untouched breakfast that had been brought in- at most- three hours previous. **Dinner already?** Before he can ask, his stomach rumbles. _

_“I could eat,” he admits._

_He could also use some kind of idea of where he is- is he even still in Minrathous?- and what the layout of his prison is like. There’s no rescue coming, he knows that now: if he wants to escape, he’ll have to do it himself._

_He’s on his own now._

* * *

Fenris was still asleep when Dorian woke up. Specifically, he was sprawled over Dorian’ chest, drooling slightly and snoring like a disgruntled druffalo. It was not an ideal way to wake up, physically speaking, but it did well enough to shake his loose of the remnants of his dream. Once he’d managed to wriggle enough that Fenris’ elbows were no longer pointed into anything soft, it was almost endearing.

Almost. Nothing could quite make up for the drool.

Dorian took a few moments to collect himself before disentangling his torso from Fenris' sleep-heavy limbs and heading to the lavatory: the taste in his mouth was revolting, he really should have rinsed before falling asleep. Other than that, he was fine- the slight ache in his jaw was a pleasant one, as was the spread of tiny bruises on his hips from where Fenris had clamped down on them. He scrubbed the drool off, and set about his normal morning routine, slightly hampered by the way he could not stop smiling.

“This is nauseating,” he muttered to his beaming reflection. Even his own admonishment sounded disgustingly delighted.

“What’s nauseating?” Fenris called out from the bedroom.

“How happy I am,” Dorian replied, turning away so he wouldn’t have to see how his smile grew even wider. _Kaffas_ , his cheeks were starting to hurt. “It’s positively vile.”

The smile slid from his face when he returned to the bedroom to discover Fenris staring up at ceiling, looking decidedly unhappy.

“Fenris?” he asked.

“Elysia,” he said. “I think that was my mother’s name.”

“You- you’re remembering things?” Dorian asked. “From before-”

Fenris turned to face him. “Just that. There was more, but it’s gone now.”

“I-” Dorian sat down on the bed and covered himself with the corner of the duvet. This wasn’t really a conversation that he could have while entirely naked. It was too big, too important, too much. He needed to sort out what to ask first, but the silence was too tense for him to do so quietly. “Wow, that’s... wow.”

“I agree.” Fenris sat up, mirroring Dorian’s pose.

“They’re probably still in there, somewhere,” Dorian said. “That you were able to remember anything at all… we could try to jog your memory a bit. Danarius poured over your family details when he was trying to get you back- I could tell you what I remember, or I could have Mae send the records down here.”

“I don’t- perhaps it isn’t obvious how upsetting this is,” Fenris said. “I remembered, I remembered all of it, everything was right there, and now- it’s as though I have nothing. As though I have less than nothing. I’m sorry.”

It sounded like a goodbye; indeed Fenris pushed himself off the bed and set about retrieving his clothes.

“I won’t pretend it’s the same,” Dorian said, the words nearly tripping over themselves as he spoke, too urgently to be careful about it. “But I know what it’s like, to think you’ve finally come to an end, that you’ve finally done something, only to discover that you are the farthest thing from done.”

Fenris paused. “You’re right,” he said heavily. “It’s not the same, this is-”

“Insurmountable?” Dorian asked. “I know what that feels like too.”

“I’m sorry,” Fenris repeated, already fastening his armor back into place. It wasn’t too long ago that Dorian would have made himself remain seated and silent, and allowed him to leave. But he couldn’t do that now. Fenris had kissed him, Fenris wanted him, and if he really wanted to leave like this, then he could do so after they’d had another screaming knock-down drag-out fight that got him kicked out of his hotel, and not before.

If Fenris was comfortable enough with him to have sex, then he could certainly argue with him.

“You don’t have nothing,” Dorian said urgently, getting to his feet. “You have me.”

There was a moment, he’ll admit, where he wanted to cringe and look down at the floor, seeing as he was naked and Fenris was not, but he grit his teeth and raised his chin and the moment passed.

“Let me help you,” Dorian continued.

“What if this cannot be helped?” Fenris demanded. “What if I am always remembering and then forgetting again?”

“What if I never have a normal dream again, but keep reliving Danarius night after night?” Dorian countered. “What if I never quite manage to stop flinching every time someone comes up to me unexpectedly? What if I start flinching during sex?”

Those were serious concerns. He only realized they were there when he’d voiced them, and then he’d realized that Fenris’ reaction wasn’t a sure thing.

“I-” Fenris’ brow furrowed. “What if it happens again? What if it happens every time we have sex?”

“Then we could not have sex, I suppose.” Even to his own ears, he sounded decidedly unenthusiastic.

“And you would be okay with that?” Fenris asked.

“Yes,” Dorian said firmly. “I’ll admit, it wouldn’t be my first choice, because this was the first time I’ve actually, willingly had sex since I was a teenager and it was incredible- or it was for me, at least.” Dorian hastily added when Fenris looked a little astonished.

“It was fine,” Fenris assured him. Before Dorian could reply with the near-requisite quip of ‘Damned by faint praise’, however, he corrected himself. “No, that’s not true. It was better than I could have hoped for.”

“Well, good,” Dorian said. “Me too.”

“I am surprised, though,” Fenris said. “I would have thought you’d have had admirers.”

“Oh, plenty of men admire me,” Dorian agreed. “They have since I was about fifteen or thereabouts. I am gorgeous, you know.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously gorgeous,” Dorian corrected. “And not at all confident in my abilities to do this without someone I trust.”

Fenris nodded, his eyes slightly larger than usual.

“So. I’m going to put on some clothes now,” Dorian told him. “And then I was thinking of getting room service brought up. Can we figure things out from there?”

“I suppose we might try,” Fenris allowed cautiously.

“That’s all I ask,” Dorian said.

They did exactly that, with a bit of a side quest to clear enough flat space for the two of them to eat. Once they’d finished with breakfast, Dorian pulled out of bottle of cordial for the two of them to share, and they talked.

“Did this happen with Isabela?” Dorian asked.

“Not as such,” Fenris replied. “When Isabela and I started sleeping together… it started one of the nights she came over to help me compose a letter to Varania. I can read well enough, but my penmanship still leaves much to be desired- hers, on the other hand, is excellent. For a very long time, the two activities were related. I often drifted off imagining what Varania was like, and what it had been like to be her brother. Those might have been memories, I suppose. If so, they weren’t as strong as whatever happened last night.”

Dorian nodded thoughtfully. He wondered what made the different- that Dorian was from Tevinter? Or that they’d known each other in Tevinter? But before he could ask, Fenris put the bottle of cordial aside in a very deliberate manner and turned to him with a very grave expression.

“There’s only one way to know for sure whether or not it will happen again,” he said, the serious tone of his voice softened by the way the corners of his mouth were pulled upward.

“Very true,” Dorian said. And then, because one of them should say it, he added “If anything makes you uncomfortable, just say the word and I’ll stop.”

“Of course,” Fenris said, looking confused. “I know that.”

It was a good thing he was already allowed to kiss him. He’d have had a hard time stopping himself otherwise.

* * *

In the end, it took two days for him to remember any of the reasons why he hadn’t allowed himself to consider Fenris as a prospect, a feat which was helped along by the way that he’d spent most of those two days in his hotel room with Fenris, exploring a great many of the prospects now open to them. They only stopped at two days because that was how long it took for Hawke to track them down and drag Fenris away on some business or another. He’d freshened up, and then gone down to The Hanged Man for drinks and company: Isabela and Varric were there, and they’d managed to drag Anders out of the sewers for a few hours.

Somehow or another it was decided that Dorian needed an education on Marcher slang for various sexual preferences, which was certainly enlightening. Tevene used ‘bent’ to describe people who were attracted to their own gender, but somehow had never developed a corresponding term for people who were not. Meanwhile, here in Kirkwall, there were people who were bent _and_ people who were straight. There were _straight people_. Something about the term absolutely tickled him.

Isabela pounded him on the back when he nearly choked on his ale, and it was then that he remembered that she was not only a dear friend, but one of those reasons why he’d never allowed himself to speculate about Fenris.

 _Vishante kaffas_ , he thought, because once he’d remembered that he couldn’t forget it again, and the knowledge hovered over his head like a particular pungent odor.

What happened now? Isabela and Fenris weren’t monogamous which meant that he wasn’t the illicit bit on the side, true, but that also necessitated that Dorian and Fenris weren’t monogamous, and he’d wanted… how did they do this, anyway? Was he supposed to discuss timesharing with her at some point or something?

He’d apparently looked dismayed at the questions he'd posed to himself, because Isabela studied him for a moment, before saying. “Fenris didn’t tell you we broke up, did he?”

“What?” Dorian asked. “No. When?”

“Almost two months ago now,” Isabela informed him. “I noticed that the two of you had potential, and I thought I’d help you realize it. Is that why you made him work so hard? You didn’t put out until the fortieth date.”

“I-” What?

“You’re not jealous, are you?” Anders asked. “You can’t get jealous because someone has slept with Isabela. It’s just understood. She’s like a side dish, she comes with the meal.”

“Only if it’s a very good meal,” Isabela said, as Dorian looked between her and Anders in growing confusion. “Which Fenris is. I hope you appreciate my sacrifice- Zevran’s only in town until his Warden is finished with her business, and then he's going to take off a bring my main source of booty with him.”

“…dates?” Dorian managed. A second later, he managed to remember that eating out was generally considered a date-type activity. “Oh no.”

Anders and Isabela laughed, which quickly turned into groaning when Varric began shaking them down for the money they’d apparently bet on him. Dorian leaned his face down onto the table and folded his arms over his head, blushing furiously.

“I told you,” Varric said. “Daisy might miss a lot, but she couldn’t have misinterpreted _that_.”

“No,” Dorian said into the table. “That was me. That was me a lot.”

 _Venhedis_ , they could have been having sex weeks ago.

He was contemplating whether or not he could just stay there like that forever and never have to meet anyone’s eyes ever again when Varric said. “And here comes the man of the hour himself.”

Dorian raised his head a little- yes, Fenris had indeed arrived.

“Dorian,” Fenris said, settling down next to him.

“Fenris,” Dorian replied. “So, funny story. Apparently we were dating for over six weeks before I realized you were interested.”

Fenris blinked, sighed, and then reached for his coin purse. Hawke threw two royals on Varric head with a snort of disgust.

“And you’re all terrible people,” Dorian proclaimed. "Especially you, Varric."

“Like attracts like,” Varric agreed, gathering his ill-gotten gains up in his own purse.

“Now kiss,” Isabela said to them. “We’ve been watching you dance around each other long enough.”

Fenris tilted his head in invitation, a hint of a smirk playing around his lips. Dorian kissed him, while very carefully holding a plate between them and Isabela in such a way as to make sure she had a good view of his middle finger.

It did nothing to hide them away from everyone else, of course, but this was Kirkwall, and he was surrounded by friends. What was there to hide?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** :  
> There are a lot of flashbacks in this chapter. The first involves Hadriana forcing a kiss onto Dorian. The second is a fairly graphic depiction of the first time Danarius raped Dorian. The third does not involve sexual abuse of any kind, but Erimond is there. The fourth largely consists of Dorian going a bit crazy while in solitary. The fifth is concerning the medical aftermath of a particularly rough night. The sixth one... is probably not triggering unless you dislike fire. The seventh one is another aftermath scene, involving the first conversation he could have with the Alexiuses after they found out about how Danarius was treating him. The eighth one is mostly Halward explaining what a terrible person he is without ever realizing that he's a terrible person. All flashbacks take place while Danarius is still alive and very present in Dorian's life, so references to him in all his murdering, raping, manipulative glory are common.
> 
>  **Tevene** :  
>  _avvisi_ \- Italian Renaissance era newsletters. (Singular: [avviso](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avviso)  
>  _caldarium_ \- the really hot portion of the traditional Roman bathhouse  
>  _tepidarium_ \- the not-so-hot portion of the traditional Roman bathhouse  
>  _tetrastoon_ \- the Ancient Greek term for [peristyle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peristyle).  
>  _Iterum dicere potes?_ \- "Say that again?"  
>  _Dixi_ \- "I said"
> 
>  **Food** :  
> ravjuli- ravioli, but Maltese  
> lagana- possibly the Ancient Roman precursor to lasagna. It might also have been some kind of pancake. For the purposes of this story, I'm assuming lasagna.  
> red tea- also known as [rooibos](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rooibos)  
> [ishkembe](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tripe_soups)\- tripe soup, which is also a folk remedy for hangovers from the Mediterranean and Eastern Europe.
> 
>  **General Notes** :  
> [Robber crabs](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coconut_crab) are what happens when terrestrial crabs evolve to fill the same ecological niche as the urban racoon, God help us all.  
> A [demesne](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demesne) is an old term for the land that a lord retained for his own use. I've deiced to use it as a Marcher term for a country estate.  
> Felix/Bethany just kind of crept up on me. I thought "hey well if Felix is in the Anderfells and Bethany is in the Anderfells then wouldn't Dorian tell Felix that... oh no, Felix and Bethany, that is too adorable, that's like, peak precious cinnamon bun. Oh no."  
> Gazar is named after [al-Jazari](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Jazari), a Turkish clockmaker from the Islamic Golden Age of remarkable skill.  
> Bianca's line about half the daughters of Carta members being named either Helga or Bianca was likely meant to be a joke, but I really liked that joke.
> 
>  **Author's Notes** :  
> I've gone through and edited things for typos and continuity. So if you're rereading and things have changed, that's why.
> 
> Chapter Ten (which should not be a near-NaNo affair) should go up on July 1st. I might have a short "missing scenes" fic, posted elsewhere in this series, going up on June 15th, but don't hold your breath.
> 
> This chapter kicked my ass in a trans-Atlantic fashion. Any comments- typo nitpicks even- would be greatly appreciated.


	10. Varric: En Flambé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric guides his audience through a series of narrative frames.

“You’ve been wasting my time, Varric,” the Seeker says. “It stops now.”

Varric swallows what he’d been planning to say: a recitation of the three days that followed where Dorian acted all weird around Isabela until she dragged him out on a bender that he’s never really gotten a satisfying account of, but had apparently involved piercings, Sergeant Melindra, and Marass. “Seeker, you wound me,” he says instead.

“The Champion nearly starts a war and you’re all too happy to bury it beneath your words,” the Seeker complains.

Which, Varric has to admit in the privacy of his own head, is not a bad criticism. But he really doesn’t want to talk about the war. Assuming the Seeker lets him go after this, he’ll have to go back to living it. But before he can say any of that, the Seeker adds “You will tell me about the Qunari.”

 _That_ just makes him wonder if maybe she took a few too many blows to the head in Seeker school. “What’s left to say? The Arishock was killed and the Champion crowned.”

“And yet we had Orlesians threatening sanctions of every kind and measure,” the Seeker says, and Varric feels a tangle of foreboding in the roots of his chest hair. “To say nothing of the accusations leveled at the Tevinter Imperium’s embassy, or their response.”

Varric frowns. This is the first he’s hearing of their being any kind of involvement with the Imperium- though given what happened shortly after they returned to Kirkwall from Orlais, maybe the Seeker just has her timeline a little screwed up.

“What happened at Chateau Haine?” the Seeker presses, as Varric expects of her by now. “What happened with Tallis?” she asks, which is more than a little unexpected.

“You heard about her?” he demands. _That’s_ a detail he’d left out of  The Tale of the Champion. He’d made only the slightest mention of that whole mess in an effort to avoid awkward questions just like these.

“We had someone there, but they lacked your access,” the Seeker admits. “Whatever Tallis was to the Champion, it seems like it angered a nation.”

“Thousands of lives were at stake, Seeker,” he says. “One of which was Flashfire’s.”

“You mean Dorian,” she checks for what must be the twentieth time. He didn’t mention House Pavus in his book, and he’s been feigning ignorance about it since she dragged him in here to discuss it. He hadn’t known, when he wrote about what Danarius had done to him, what sort of effect that would have on him- and on Tevinter. Andraste’s tits, he’d needed Mae to come all the way down to Ansburg to let him know just how badly he’d fucked that one up. He knows better now, and if this is the fig leaf he can offer Flashfire, then the Seeker will just have to deal with it.

“There’s still only one Flashfire,” he replies.

“Dorian of House..?” she prompts.

Varric rolls his eyes. The Seeker has been trying to get him to say ‘Pavus’ since he’d gotten to that part of the story. From what he can tell, she already tried the Kirkwall City Records to no avail, and had an equally unhelpful conversation with Aveline.

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall for that meeting…

“Of House I Don’t Remember Because He Was Always Using His Married Name For Business Reasons,” Varric tells her. “You can understand why I shortened it for the book. Are you clear about which one of Hawke’s people didn’t manage to walk away from Chateau Haine under his own power?”

The Seeker makes a disgusted noise. “Are you clear that there is one life still imperiled by what happened there?”

“Nicely nonspecific,” he comments. “All right, let me set the scene: an ambush, an invitation, a hunting party. All because of Tallis.”

* * *

 

“And of course there’s no one,” Hawke complained, looking around the deserted market square.

I wasn’t sure what she was complaining about- we’d just gotten rid of those blood mages. “All I know is it had something to do with you and nobles,” I told her. “Edge is usually very reliable.”

“This is normally when we’re ambushed,” Broody pointed out.

*

_“And I was correct.”_

_“Hold your lyrium, I’m getting to that.”_

*

“Why ? It’s not always an ambush,” I replied.

 _That_ was when we were ambushed.

“All right, maybe sometimes it’s an ambush,” I admitted, hefting Bianca into the ready position.

*

_“It’s **always** an ambush.”_

_“No, it’s not! Sometimes it’s a trap to keep us away from wherever the real trouble is going to be.”_

_“In the middle of Hightown’s market square?”_

_“Stranger things have happened, Broody.”_

*

“And here is the Champion of Kirkwall,” announced the man who was presumably their leader. He looked a bit like Blondie, but with a lot of gristle, and without any of his redeeming qualities. “You die today.”

“Haven’t you heard?” I said. “Messing with us is suicidal.”

*

_“No, you didn’t.”_

_“Look, do you want to tell this story? I’m telling you, you don’t want to tell this story. Flashfire, back me up here.”_

_“Why do people keep thinking I’m going to be holding Fenris back from anything?”_

_“…good point. You’re a terrible enabler.”_

_“Yes, thank you, it’s about time **someone** noticed.”_

*

Before I could fire off a shot, or Hawke could sneak up behind the guy and stab him, or Blondie could show him why mages are feared, or the broody elf here could broodily stab him in the chest while brooding, someone else beat us to the murder knife.

It was an elf- a thin slip of a woman with bright red hair that got lost in the arterial spray as she propelled herself down to deal with some of the men surrounding us. She landed right behind an archer, and stabbed him before he could release an arrow, sending his shot right into the eye of one of his fellows. She used the guy she’d just stabbed as a meat shield when another one of the men shot at her, and then threw knifed him right back. Her missile hit its mark, and his body plummeted to the cobblestones behind us. Two men came at her at once, one with a sword and the other with a mace. She engaged the swordsman, parrying his thrust, stabbing his side, and then flipping him over the railing into the main market square level. She went after him, just barely dodging the mace as she did so, using his body to break her fall. She went tumbling into the main square, barely straightening before she moved onto the next man, and the next, and the next, twirling gracefully from one kill to the next. It was poetry in motion, and we were stricken dumb by the sight.

*

_“And none of you stepped in to help?”_

_“Did you not hear me? We were stricken dumb.”_

_“Really?”_

_“She seemed to have the matter well in hand.”_

_“Oh don’t roll your eyes at Broody, Flashfire, if you’d been there, you’d have been …completely undistracted and probably lit half of Hightown on fire coming to her defense.”_

_“You say that like that’s not the usual state of affairs on alternate Tuesdays.”_

*

The mysterious elf- the woman, not the broodmaster over here- danced her way past us and over to where the ambush’s leader had staggered to his feet. She held the blade of her dagger up to his throat, and winked.

“Kill her! Kill all of them!” he ordered.

She slit his throat, and in the same motion turned to face the four of us.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” she demanded.

*

_“You’ve got a look on your face like you want to say something, Flashfire.”_

_“No, no, you’re telling the story! I’ll hold my remarks until after you’re through.”_

_“And **I’ll** hold you to that.”_

*

The fight didn’t last very long. As I told their leader earlier, messing with us is suicidal.

*

_“No, you didn’t.”_

_“You know what Broody? If you can’t appreciate a little creative license, the least you could do is join your boyfriend in holding your remarks until I’m through.”_

*

“Who in the blazes is that?” Blondie asked as he set one of the attackers ablaze.

“Don’t know. Kill people, then ask questions!” I advised, shooting two through with the same bolt from Bianca.

*

_“Urgh.”_

_“What do you mean, ‘urgh’? You know what Broody, I’m ignoring you.”_

_“And I am attempting to hold my remarks until you’ve finished tell your version of events.”_

_“And I’m still ignoring you.”_

*

Within moments, the marketplace was a graveyard: blood seeped between the cobblestones like water over parched earth, bodies strewn willy-nilly all around us as we all struggled to catch our breath.

*

_“We thought there was a new gang of blood mages that caused that.”_

_“I guess I never did send that message off to Aveline, did I? Whoops.”_

_“No, you didn’t. I’ll tell her that she needs the ‘Act of Hawke’ paperwork in the morning.”_

_“I feel compelled to ask whether there’s actually Hawke-specific paperwork or if that’s a joke.”_

_“You’re a smart man, Dorian, which do you think it is?”_

_“I think I could go either way, really.”_

_“Fair enough. Well, we haven’t created any new forms, but we do have a stack of ready-to-file reports involving property damage and self-defense killings with Hawke’s name on them in Aveline’s office.”_

*

As we all struggled to catch our breath, aside from the mysterious elven lady, that is.

“Sloppy,” she tutted over one of the dead bodies. As she noticed our collective disbelieving stare, she got to her feet and approached. “You’d think the Crows would be better at this. They’ve been doing it for ages.”

“Nice entrance,” said Hawke, still clearly a little dazzled. “You have some fine moves.”

“I do, don’t I?” the elf replied, preening like Flashfire after a change of clothes. She dropped into a curtsy. “My name is Tallis, and I’ve been looking for you.”

*

_“ **Tallis**?”_

_“Yeah. Is she a friend of yours, Flashfire?”_

_“Very much no, unless she faked her death and changed her gender. Even then… what happened next?”_

*

“Looking for me?” Hawke asked.

“Looking for the woman who has an invitation to Chateau Haine, to be specific,” Tallis told her.

“That’s what Edge was on about,” I said. “You remember, Duke Prosper, the one who fawned all over you at the Champion of Kirkwall banquet. He talked about a hunt.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose at the memory. “I doubt I’d go to such a thing.”

“I was hoping you’d reconsider,” Tallis said. “The duke is a delightful host- or so I hear.”

“Let me guess,” Hawke replied. “This isn’t just a social call.”

“I need to relieve him of something he has no right to possess,” Tallis confirmed, some of the playfulness she’d had about her disappearing for a moment, and leaving something grim and determined, yet vulnerable, in its place. “And I can’t do it alone.”

“You want to rob him?” Hawke asked. It had been a while since any kind of stealing jobs had come her way. Even grand larceny seemed like a petty thing to bother the Champion of Kirkwall with these days, after all.

Man, but Hawke really needed a break from being Champion of Kirkwall.

“Stealing from Orlesians is never wrong!” I said to her. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“There’s always a catch,” Blondie cautioned. “Nobody ever helps us unless there’s a catch.”

“This isn’t how I was planning to ask you,” Tallis said. “I was picturing an introduction with… less blood.”

“What makes you think I steal things just because people ask me to?” Hawke asked.

“I may have talked you up a bit,” I admitted. “Maybe more than once.”

*

_“ **Maybe**?”_

_“Really, all three of you are going to jump on me for that?”_

_“Varric, that wasn’t just the three of us- it was the entire city of Kirkwall, and a goodly portion of the Free Marches as a whole.”_

_“There are likely people in Fereldan who jumped on you for that.”_

_“Yeesh, everyone’s a critic these days.”_

*

“Oh, Varric,” Hawke sighed.

“What? Would you rather I told everyone you were the next Viscountess of Kirkwall?”

“I’d rather no one bring up that possibility _ever again_ ,” Hawke replied.

“All I’ve heard is that you get things done,” Tallis said, and if she said it truthfully, then I clearly need to redouble my efforts. “I’m hoping that’s true.”

“Why not?” Hawke conceded. “I hear Orlesians make excellent cheese.”

“That’s right,” Tallis said with a laugh. “You’re Fereldan aren’t you?”

“We’re not actually dog people, despite whatever rumors you’ve heard,” Hawke replied, rolling her eyes.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tallis said.

“So tell me: what exactly is it you want to steal?” Hawke asked.

“A jewel,” Tallis said cagily. “The duke thinks it’s valuable, and it is, just not in the way he believes. What’s more, he shouldn’t have it in the first place. He who wishes to walk on water must first learn to swim.”

It sounded like she was quoting something, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what.

“Come with me to Chateau Haine. I’ll explain everything on the way,” Tallis continued. “If nothing else, you’ll get fine wine and fancy company. But… I hope you want more than that.”

“I’ve already got a girlfriend, sorry,” Hawke apologized. “Not that you aren’t lovely, but she’s a really, really good girlfriend who I really have to figure out how to propose to sooner rather than later. Like, ‘before the city explodes’ soon.”

“Your honeymoon period when you’re actually having a honeymoon is going to be insufferable, isn’t it?” Blondie asked the moons rhetorically.

“Oh, I don’t mean _that_ ,” Tallis said with an impish giggle. “I mean- look: the jewel we’re after is called the Heart of the Many.”

*

_“The **what**?”_

_“Uh- the Heart of the Many?”_

_“ **Venhedis**. And Hawke is already halfway to Orlais with this Tallis, isn’t she?”_

_“Yeah, what-”_

_“And that didn’t ring any bells, Fenris?”_

_“I still don’t know what the significance is.”_

_“So, I’m guessing that **doesn’t** mean something in Tevene?”_

_“No, it’s **Qunlat**. The Qunari have this agency- secret police in their own territory, spies on the outside of it- called the Ben-Hassrath, which literally translates to ‘the heart of the many’ in Trade. Worse, I’m pretty sure Tallis isn’t a name- it’s a rank within the Ben-Hassrath.”_

_“Well, shit. She brought Rivaini with her.”_

_“ **Venhedis kaffan vas**!”_

* * *

“And that, Seeker, was how we first realized that the Qunari were involved,” Varric says with a note of finality. “Also, that was the second worst end to any of our Diamondback nights, the first one being the Qunari invasion, of course.”

“It was fortunate you had a speaker of Qunlat with you,” the Seeker replies, clearly not paying the slightest bit of attention to his tone. “Without Dorian, thing would have gone very differently, I imagine.”

She’s been trying to steer him towards admitting to some kind of Tevinter conspiracy ever since he’d gotten to the point where Flashfire arrived in Kirkwall. He supposes that she needs something to blame this whole Mage-Templar mess on: and as she’d apparently accepted that Hawke wasn’t exactly the mastermind type, and had left the Warden conspiracy behind…

Always assuming she wouldn’t pick that one up again when she heard about Warden Bethany Hawke and Altus Felix Alexius. That might rekindle the Warden conspiracy.

Yeah, he isn’t planning on telling her that one. He’s going to leave as many ‘vints out of this as possible, seeing as Flashfire and Mae were- and probably still are- technically conspiring to do a lot.

“Well sure, things would have gone differently without Flashfire,” he admits. “Of course, they also would have gone differently without Broody or Choir Boy.”

“What about Prince Vael?” she asks.

“Well, Seeker, if you’ll allow me to set the scene for you once more…”

* * *

This was all happening right at the end of Harvestmere, in 9:37 Dragon, so even though it was nearly midnight the streets of Hightown were resplendent with lights: little decorative lanterns strung over streets and alleys, and the normal streetlamps enchanted to burn in different colors courtesy of the Circle of Kirkwall. I suppose Meredith had to find some use for all those Tranquil they keep making.

There was no snow yet, but it was freezing: you could see all of our exhalations, even Flashfire’s, and he’d grabbed a scarf out of some dark corner of Broody’ place and wound it around his head. He lead the way, keeping up a steady stream of banter with his boyfriend the entire time: I followed along, while Donnic plead having a wife and a steady job and returned home.

“How do you not know what Ben-Hassrath means?” he asked, his voice only slightly muffled by his scarf. “You were on Seheron for most of a year!”

“It wasn’t as though I were taking Qunlat lessons,” Broody retorted. “I thought Ben-Hassrath would translate into something more direct, like ‘secret police’ or maybe ‘religious spies’.”

“Why the hell did the Qunari of all people name their terrifying spy police ‘the Heart of the Many’?” I asked. “That sounds more like something the Orlesians would do. Or maybe the Antivans.”

“Qunlat is a surprisingly poetic language, when it comes to translating it literally at least,” Flashfire replied.

“Did I hear you correctly? Poetic Qunari?” I demanded.

“ _meQ Hovmey ’e’ yIghoH. ratlh pemHov ’e’ HIpon. ngeb vIt chIch ’e’ yInoH. yIpab je_ ,” Flashfire replied. Presumably, that was Qunari poetry of some kind.

Qunari love poetry, if look on Broody’s face was any indication.

This was also about two weeks or so after Flashfire and Broody finally managed to get their act together and actually get together. As you might imagine, two weeks was not nearly enough to burn through the accumulated pining and sexual tension arising from months of misery arising from Flashfire moving into a hotel, followed by nearly a month and a half of oblivious dating. It didn’t even come close to working through what I was beginning to suspect were some serious feelings dating back to when they were stuck in Tevinter with Danarius.

Not that I was going to stir up that particular pit of vipers. Especially not when their current situation was making it so easy to make Flashfire stammer and blush- he’d gotten into the habit recently of tapping his fingers against the lovebites Broody apparently likes leaving on his neck, and every time he was called on it, he flushed so hard you could fry an egg on his face. To say nothing of the fact that I might have to find a new nickname for Broody if he continued to look almost happy around Flashfire. Daisy had bet me that he would actually smile one of these days, and that his face would crack when he did- and right at that moment, I did not like my odds.

Yeah, yeah, I know Seeker, **get on with it**. Yeah, I know, you don’t sound like that. Yeah, I know, I’m stalling. Take it up with my lawyers. Oh wait, that would require informing someone that you’re holding me for questioning!

Anyway…

“That basically means ‘You should have great certainty that you are my favorite person’, though literally it’s a lot more flowery,” Flashfire translated as we rounded the corner onto Choir Boy’s street.

We all huddled together out on his doorstep as Flashfire pounded on the door. It took Choir Boy a few minutes to stumble out of bed, but when he did he immediately guessed the problem.

“What has Hawke gotten us all involved in now?” he groaned.

“Poetic Qunari spy police,” I explained. “So we need you and your wyvern hunting invitation to accompany us to Orlais.”

“We’ll explain more fully in the coach,” Flashfire added. “Once I fetch a coach.”

* * *

The Seeker does not look impressed by his retelling of events.

“You are telling me that Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, accepted that explanation without comment,” she says.

“Well, he was still kind of wobbly about the Prince thing at the time,” Varric reminds her. “Also, you know the type of weird shit Hawke got us involved in. The week before that, we were standing around a hidden dungeon in an abandoned thaig on Sundermount, listening to Hawke discuss potential Satinalia presents with the Nexus Golem.”

The Seeker grunts in concession of his point.

“Can I continue?” he checks.

“By all means.”

* * *

Flashfire apparently knew of three coach services that offered services outside the city at all hours, and had no trouble leading us towards the one which could get us to Orlais in a hurry. And before you ask why: he knew that for the same reason Rivaini knew when the tides were coming and going, Daisy knew of every Dalish campground in the Marches, Broody knew where every city gate was, and I knew every smuggling route out of Kirkwall. There was a war coming, and wars are bad news for all involved. If Hawke decided to exercise her self-preservation for once in her life and flee when it started, then _someone_ needed to have some idea of how to make a clean getaway and where to head from there.

We all piled into one of the swankier coaches I’ve had the pleasure of being in: plush cushions, plenty of leg room for the humans and the elf, and curtains for privacy. It was also enchanted for heat, but that was pretty much standard for Kirkwall at that point: there were really _a lot_ of Tranquil, and they were running short on municipal resources to enchant.

“Varric will be better able to explain the particulars of the situation than myself, but the short version is that Hawke was contacted by a Tallis to allegedly steal a jewel called “The Heart of the Many”. Given that the Qunari spy agency’s name, Ben-Hassrath, translates as ‘the heart of the many’ and the fact that I’m pretty sure Tallis is a Ben-Hassrath rank, that is unlikely to be what’s actually going on.”

I launched in the particulars, which I assume I don’t need to retell? Good. Once I was through with that, Broody turned to Flashfire and said “You never explained how you came about this information.”

Flashfire mulled that one over for a while, clearly struggling to come up with a sufficiently flippant way to phrase whatever it was Danarius had done to him that resulted in him knowing about poetic Qunari spy police. We waited while he frowned down at the carriage floor, the enchanted flame causing the piercing on his helix to glitter distractingly.

He’d gotten it pierced with Rivaini the week before, and claimed to have no memory of the event. He’d barely stopped bitching about it for days, but seeing as the piercing he’d originally had in had been a disturbingly contorted fanged monkey and he was now sporting a cobra threading its way through the top of his ear, I suspected a case of ‘the mage doth protest too much’. Or maybe he just wanted Blondie to crawl out of his clinic for a while under the guise of making sure his ear wasn’t going to turn green and fall off. Or maybe he wanted to make sure Rivaini knew better than to try whatever it was they’d done and now were so damn cagey about again.

I never did get the full story behind that. And yeah, I know Seeker, that's not what you're interested in hearing about.

“You might recall my telling you that I’m too pretty to be used as a blood sacrifice expect in exceptional circumstances,” Flashfire began finally.

“You _what_?” I demanded.

“He used blood magic on you?” Choir Boy asked, sounding horrified.

“He used blood magic on me fairly regularly,” Flashfire told us. “I was only a blood _sacrifice_ the once.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked.

“Blood magic essentially refers to the practice of using blood to power spells, either instead of mana entirely, or to enhance the potency of the spell,” he explained. “You can use blood magic with just about anything, and Danarius frequently did. There’s also a set of spells, mostly to do with manipulating the body, which can only be done with blood magic, which Danarius was also quite proficient in. And then there’s blood sacrifices, which are blood magic specific spells which can only be done with at least one unwilling participant, known as the sacrifice. The more fearful and painful the spell is for the sacrifice, the more potent it is for the caster, so the general expectation is a long, drawn out agonizing death.”

“Are you all right?” Choir Boy demanded.

Flashfire waves him off. “I’ve got a scar on my arm, but aside from that, there’s no lasting damage. And that’s beside the point- the point is that the Ben-Hassrath were _the_ exceptional circumstance.”

“Was this on Seheron?” Fenris asked.

“No. Afterwards,” Dorian said. “He got very involved with the Siccari- that’s one of the vaguely cultist Tevinter supremacist groups that keep popping up like so much dandelion fluff whenever the wind stirs. The Siccari are unique in that they restrict their self-defined mandate to retaking Seheron: most of those groups are bent on conquering the world through the bloodiest means necessary, not just that one island.”

“He was looking for me,” Broody surmised.

“And he felt rather sore about having the leave the island behind and lose the Seheron estate,” Flashfire was quick to add. “But yes. It was after you escaped that he contacted the Siccari- specifically, he got _very_ involved with a Siccari cell that had been infiltrated by the Ben-Hassrath.”

“Did he know that to start with?” Broody asked

“Not at first,” Flashfire told him. “Not until things started exploding, at least. According to the Tallis who was sent to infiltrate Danarius’ household, the Ben-Hassrath had been trying to get eyes on him for a while. It was just luck that the first Siccari cell he made contact with was already run by one of their viddathari agents. They sent that Tallis- you know what? Let’s just call him Gentian avoid confusion- they sent Gentian to try and get a clearer picture of who Danarius was, which, incidentally, they absolutely did not have.”

“Oh?”

“Well, the first thing he tried was seducing Danarius.”

Broody’s eyes went very wide, and his mouth puckered like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Oh.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“That is a bad plan.”

“That is a _terrible_ plan,” Flashfire agreed, rounding on Choir Boy and I, as though we might have the urge to go back in time and seduce their old master for shits and giggles. “That is, quite possibly, the worst plan ever, and he was very lucky to still be alive and in a salvageable condition when Danarius tired of him. I got him to the healer’s wards, and asked around to see if anyone knew if he had family somewhere, just in case, and Ynga brought me some letters she’d seen him writing. She didn’t know what they said- she couldn’t read, she could barely speak in anything that wasn’t Ander- but I had learned enough Qunlat to recognize the language. I waited until he was lucid enough to speak, but not so recovered that he could easily kill me if he thought that might protect his cover. We couldn’t speak openly of it, but I managed to convey the fact that his secret was safe with me, and that if he’d come to kill Danarius I would help in any way possible. And that was the start of my education about how the Ben Hassrath _really_ operated, as opposed to the propaganda Danarius had had us study before we went back to Seheron to try and get you back.”

“You worked with the Ben-Hassrath?” I asked. “You, the Altus mage from Tevinter- from Qarinus, no less.”

Qarinus, in case your ‘vintography is a little rusty Seeker, is just a short distance away from Seheron: on a clear day you can see right across the water to the island, if the wind’s blowing in the right direction you can smell the place burning, and the last time the Qunari pushed the Imperium out the ferries from Seheron City all landed there. No one in the Imperium is quite as keen to see the Qunari pushed a little farther afield than the citizens of Qarinus, because if the Qunari ever invaded the mainland again, they would be the first to go.

“You know that whole attachment to their weapons thing that Qunari have?” Flashfire asked.

I nodded. Hawke had spent more than enough time dredging up Qunari swords because of that attachment for me to get the memo.

“That’s just the Antaam- the military,” he explained. “The Ben-Hassrath are a religious order, and they don’t have the same emphasis. Instead, they use whatever tools will get the job done. If one of those tools ends up being a _bas saarebas_ …” He shrugged. “I kept telling him that I’d being willing to negotiate with his superiors on the grounds that Danarius was not a member of the Qun. I’m not sure if he believed me, or believed it to be possible, but the notion that I might not automatically be mind wiped and collared in service to the Qun was one of those polite fictions that allowed us to work together so well. We almost killed him, you know. Just a little more luck, and he would have died.”

“And he never discovered that you knew?” Broody asked.

“He suspected that I knew, not that I was involved in any of the planning- which, for the record, I was very deeply involved with,” Flashfire told him. “I was already in, so to speak- Danarius was already in the habits of discussing the wards and other security measures in my presence.”

“He just told you-”

Flashfire didn’t let me finish my question. “He didn’t tell me anything- but he discussed his innovations and such with other magisters in front of me. Or, well, more often _over_ me. You’d be surprised what people will say when they regard you as little more than a particularly sexy lamp.” He shrugged. “It made me useful, and the Qunari like useful things. I passed information about Danarius to the Ben-Hassrath, and in return, Gentian taught me a fair bit about the Qunari.”

“So- is there a poetic Qunari phrase for the sort of shitshow we can expect?” I asked.

“ _nucholDI’ lot, nIteb ghoqwI’ DaQo’ bIH_ ,” Flashfire replied promptly.

“Which means..?”

“They’ve called for reinforcements,” Broody translated.

“Or that we can expect them to have them waiting at the ready,” Flashfire corrected. “To judge from Gentian, Tallis agents on their own can wreak bloody havoc when they have a mind to- but they’re just as often acting as a vanguard for a much larger operation. We’re presuming that Isabela is their target?”

I nodded. Broody frowned. “Should we be? She wasn’t there when Tallis introduced herself, and she didn’t come up when Tallis was explaining things.”

“But Tallis did come with a story about a valuable jewel which needed to be stolen,” I pointed out.

“Which is very Isabela,” Broody conceded.

“Do you think Hawke is also a target?” Flashfire asked. “She did kill the Arishok, after all- they might want her on those grounds.”

Broody shook his head. “She defeated the Arishok in honorable- if unconventional- single combat as dictated by his terms, which he set after declaring her _basalit-an_. The Qunari withdrew peaceably after his death, and largely see the matter as closed.”

“He did?” Flashfire asked. “ _Basalit-an_? Well, word of _that_ was certainly repressed in the Imperium.”

“Which is why I’m uncertain Isabela is their target,” Broody replied. “The duel was fought over her freedom. They should also consider the matter closed, or at least closed until such time as she can be separated from Hawke.”

“Shall we assume that’s the plan, somehow? Or shall we assume that we can’t assume anything?”

I shrugged. “You’ve been quiet, Choir Boy, what do you think?”

Choir Boy made a sound which could most charitably be described as “Hzorgnath.”

“Oh dear,” Flashfire teased. “We’ve interrupted your _important_ sleep, I see.”

“No, I’m awake,” Choir Boy protested. He frowned. “Was somebody having sex with a lamp?”

“Your very important sleep,” Flashfire corrected himself with a smirk. “Don’t worry, we’ll just switch roles: I’ll be the fashionably late arrival looking for gossip and you can just stand there and look pretty.”

“We’re gate crashing a wyvern hunting party in Orlais because Hawke might be being kidnapped by the poetic Qunari spy police there,” I reminded him.

“Oh,” he replied. “And your plan was to stand there and look pretty?”

“It’s less a plan and more a routine,” Flashfire said. “Standing there and looking pretty was about half of the job description.”

“In much the same way half of my job was standing there and looking intimidating,” Broody said dryly.

“ _Lorem ipsum_ ,” Flashfire said in a sarcastic tone of voice.

“ _Dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit_ ,” Broody retorted.

“ _Sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua_ ,” Flashfire said, sticking out his tongue.

“What would be the point of doing that here?” Choir Boy asked.

“People say all kinds of things when they’re convinced you’re just a sexy lamp,” I answered for Flashfire.

Choir Boy nodded at the context clicked into place. “That make sense, I suppose.”

Flashfire and Broody exchanged frowns.

“Is everything alright, Sebastian?” Flashfire asked.

He sighed in response. “News from home,” he explained. “Goran is… easily ruled. It’s why the Harimanns arranged for him to become Prince in the first place. But the Harimann’s are no longer interested in Starkhaven, which means that he’s come under the influence of other powers.”

“Any specific powers you’re concerned about?” I asked.

“Nevarra,” he replied.

* * *

“Nevarra,” the Seeker repeats, surprised.

“It was no slight towards your homeland in particular,” Varric hastens to assure her. “Not any more than his disparaging talk about the influence of the Mortalitasi on Nevarran politics was a slight towards Dorian’s magic, at least. He just wanted to keep the creepy skull people away from his city.” And, to be fair, word is that he’s kept the creepy skull people out of Starkhaven, though that might possibly be because some of those skulls still have brains in them, and anyone with even half a brain stays away from the Prince of Starkhaven these days.

Choir Boy… he really needs a new nickname for that guy. Invading Kirkwall and then raining vengeance down upon any apostates on the off chance that they might know where Blondie is holed up are not the actions of the guy who was scandalized that people read implications into the way he wore Andraste’s face over his crotch.

Then again, pretty much every has done something he would have sworn they were not capable of doing by now. Maybe he doesn’t know people as well as he’s thought, let alone as well as he’s claimed.

‘I’m too old for this shit’, he thinks. He’s written that line for a dozen different characters in a dozen different situations, the only commonality being that the shit never cared about how old they were- if it wasn’t done being shit yet, then there wasn’t a thing to be done about it.

“Anyway,” he says. “We discussed Starkhaven politics for a while- I tuned most of it out- and then Flashfire had a minor panic over our clothes not being up to snuff. Can I pick up when arrived at Chateau Haine, or is this going to be like the caves and you’re going to want me to make up facts about shit I don’t actually care about?”

“Be truthful, by all means,” the Seeker reminds him, her eyes colder than the steel of her armor.

“Well then,” he says. “By the time we arrived, the wyvern hunt was already over with- Hawke had killed herself the first wyvern, the alpha wyvern no less- and though the party was in full swing, neither the Champion nor our host was anywhere to be found…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tevene** :  
> Nope.
> 
>  **Qunlat** :  
> The Qunlat phrases Dorian uses in this chapter are actually Klingon: specifically, quotes from Hamlet. The first quote is “Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.” The second quote is “When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.”
> 
> …which are definitely more Dorian/Iron Bull quotes than Dorian/Fenris quotes (especially in this universe), but my translation of Much Ado About Nothing has yet to arrive, so my choices were limited.
> 
> (But why would I want to substitute Klingon for Qunlat in the first place, you ask? For the same reason Varric apparently got lazy and stopped describing caves to Cassandra. _Because_.) 
> 
> **General Notes** :  
> You know how long I’ve been waiting for a chance to work the sexy lamp line into this thing? _Too damn long_.
> 
>  **Author’s Notes** :  
> I actually manage to finish this chapter before my self-imposed due date! \0/ Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite soon enough for me to have much of a cushion, and it’s looking like chapter fifteen might be longer than chapter nine, so I _really_ need a cushion.
> 
> So I’ll be seeing all y’all on August 1st with Chapter Eleven: Why Does Hawke Even Have International Political Chicanery Thursdays?
> 
> Update 7/27/15: Real life kind of exploded, so International Political Chicanery Thursday is being put off until probably September. There might be another part(s) of this fic series going up because I need to write something to make myself cry. (And, also, a crapload of five times type plot bunnies started breeding.)
> 
> Update 9/27/15: I am so sorry you guys. Real life is continuing to spiral, and I am having trouble making the next part come. I am tentatively making November 1st the new date for chapter 11 (I am so sorry!) I honestly have no idea when things will get better but hopefully I will have enough wherewithal to finish the next chapter. Again, I am so, so sorry for the wait.


	11. Hawke: Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke should probably stop having International Political Chicanery Thursdays.

It had been a very long time since Hawke had managed to go so far into an errand and not kill someone. These days it sometimes seemed to her that she couldn't go to the market without having to kill someone. She was having a lot of fun, sneaking her way to the jewel.

Naturally, that was when things went to shit.

“You’re Qunari?” Hawke demanded, more or less the moment the guards left them alone. “What am I saying? Of course you’re Qunari! Why wouldn’t you be Qunari, that makes perfect sense! Orlesians and Qunari! It’s like we’re having a twofer special on nations that have invaded places I’ve called home.”

“You seemed calmer when the duke told you,” Tallis observed.

“Well the duke’s a tit and I don’t want him knowing what upsets me,” Hawke replied. “Andraste’s sacred girdle of flames.” She sank down on the stone bench. “You could have just told me, you know.”

“Would you have listened?” Tallis asked.

“I don’t know,” Hawke said. “I still don’t know what your plan actually is. Or was. I assume this isn’t part of your plan.”

She waved vaguely around the cell.

“No, this was not my plan,” Tallis agreed.

Hawke sighed. The evening had started out so well, too. Merrill was so excited to be spending time outside of Kirkwall, she was almost giddy, and it was a lovely expression for her. Hawke had to wonder, guiltily, if she missed traveling. Merrill had had to change so much of how she lived her life when she moved into the city, going from living openly as a mage being groomed for a position of leadership to having to hide being a mage or risk being locked away or worse. She’d gone from living out in the wild with her clan of a hundred or so elves to living in the crowded squalor of Kirkwall as part of a very shit-upon minority.

Almost literally shit upon. She was going to have to talk with Seneschal Bran about doing something about the illegal Hightown sewage dump that had been pouring into the alienage, once they were both back in Kirkwall. Or rather, about what could be done without him actually having to do anything, because Templars and no Viscount. Maybe she could fund some kind of sewage project. They could name it after Bartrand.

And Merrill wanted a garden. That would be easy enough. They needed the courtyard fairly clear for practice, but there was the side lot that was pretty much just grass right now. And window boxes. She could get some kind of greenhouse put on the roof, probably.

Assuming everyone managed to get out of this one alive, that was. But she liked assuming that everyone would live, it made her feel like she had to keep fighting when everyone else was more or less resigned to their fate.

“The one I expect to find is named Salit,” Tallis said, throwing her a little before she remembered that Merrill was probably not who Tallis was worried about right now. “He’s a member of the Ben-Hassrath. The Heart of the Many. I was told he’s here to sell secrets to the Orlesians, and I came to stop him. I … suppose I was misinformed.”

“So you came here to stop this Salit from betraying your people?” Hawke asked.

“You probably won’t believe me, but this isn’t a political mission. It’s… personal.”

“Well. That doesn’t sound like a line Varric would write before his main character went on a grenade-happy murderspree or anything,” Hawke remarked.

Tallis huffed. “Mr. Tethras has an… interesting idea of how these things work.”

“Wait,” Hawke said. “Are you telling me that the Qunari read Varric’s books?”

“Quite a lot of people do,” Tallis said. “They shape people’s expectations, and it’s important for us to know what people expect.”

“That’s the best thing I’ve learned all day,” Hawke declared happily.

Tallis smiled.

“So, if this were one of Varric’s books, I’d guess that Salit was an ex,” Hawke continued. “But I understand from Saemus that the Qunari aren’t into that kind of thing?”

“No, they’re not,” Tallis said, frowning slightly. “He was my bessrathari- he recruited me into the Ben-Hassrath. He was a tutor. A mentor. A friend. He saw my potential, and convinced me that I could make a difference. I wanted to make a difference so badly… but none of that matters now.”

It sounded to Hawke like that mattered a lot, but she could always ask her about that later. “You said he was selling secrets,” Hawke nudged her.

“He is, or at least he intends to,” Tallis said. “One last act of defiance. I can’t let him do that. Not when he’ll hurt so many others in the process.”

“Other Qunari?” Hawke checked. “Or is this going to be like the saar-qamek disaster all over again where a whole bunch of innocent civilians get fucked over because of it?”

“You say that like it can’t be both. There are Qunari who aren’t soldiers, you know,” Tallis huffed. “There are farmers, artisans, craftsman, thousands of them. They have never hurt anyone, and they don’t deserve what he’d do to them. It’s not just my duty to stop Salit. It’s a moral obligation.”

“Are these… Qunari living on the Thedosian mainland?” Hawke asked, startled. “Outside of Kont-aar in Rivain, I mean.”

“What makes you think that?” Tallis asked.

“Because if you give an Orlesian Qunari military secrets, the last thing they’d do would be to strike against the Qunari. They’d use it to take back Fereldan, or the Marches, or to wage war against Nevarra.”

“That’s a good point,” Tallis conceded. “Some, yes, are civilian Qunari living on the main body of the continent. Others… it’s difficult to explain.”

“Try me.”

“Most of the Qunari… they don’t understand humans any more than you understand us,” Tallis answered. Well, Tallis evaded in a way she was supposed to take as an answer. “But I grew up among you. I understand you perfectly well.”

“Is that why they sent you? It- hold up, let me make sure I have this straight: you’re a Ben-Hassrath agent assassin elf, this Salit recruited you but has since gone Tal-Vashoth which is like, self-exile or desertion or something, and now he’s gone to give the Orlesians state secrets which will get a lot of innocent people killed.”

“That’s not entirely wrong,” Tallis said reluctantly. “But- well. Both Salit and I have more complicated relations with the Qun than are encapsulated by the term Tal-Vashoth.”

“Again: try me.”

“Being Ben-Hassrath… we’re the soul of the Qun. We protect it, both inside and out. Not every Qunari agrees, and sometimes they do not act for the good of all. We remind everyone of our common goal,” Tallis looked off into the distance. Man, she totally should have brought Varric along for this. He could have gotten an entire serial out of this woman. “You don’t need to have horns to embrace the Qun. What you need is purpose, a belief in unity, in improving the lot not only for your own people, but for everyone. I was Ben-Hassrath. So was Salit. Whether either of us will be again remains to be seen.”

“So, you’re… looking to regain your honor? For redemption?”

“Not from the Qun,” Tallis said firmly.

Yeah, Varric could write a really long serial about that line alone.  

“Doubt is the path one walk to reach faith. To leave the path is to embrace blindness and abandon hope.”

“Have you just been quoting the Qun at me this entire time?” Hawke asked.

“She who swallows wisdom in tiny chunks avoids choking,” Tallis replied.

Hawke snorted. “So. There’s no Heart of the Many Jewel.”

“Heart of the Many is what Ben-Hassrath means. I was going to give you an actual jewel to bring home.”

“And you really just picked me- Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, slayer of the Arishok, blah-de-frigging-blah- because I had an invitation?”

“You were the only one of the list who isn’t a personal friend of the Montfort family.”

“Seriously?” Hawke asked. “Including Seneschal Bran?”

“He’s the illegitimate nephew of the duke,” Tallis told her. “Now that he’s in a position of some importance, inviting him is a way to preemptively placate him, and prevent him from causing scandal.”

Hawke snorted. “And he invited Serendipity. Maker’s balls, I wonder what that’s about?”

Tallis shrugged. “It was awkward. That’s all I know.”

Hawke nodded.

“So, how did you imagine this ending?” Hawke wondered, after a moment of silence. “I would get you to the party, at some point I would steal a jewel and you would handle Salit, and then...?”

“I thank you, and we go our separate ways.”

“With me none the wiser?” Hawke asked incredulously.

“Truth? You’re not exactly what I was expecting,” Tallis admitted. “I’ve heard a few stories about you. They don’t quite do you justice.”

“And here I thought Varric talked me up,” Hawke said.

“He does, in some ways,” Tallis said. “The Champion of Kirkwall, the stories say, always has a smile on her lips and a song in her heart. She’s witty, irreverent, and will make you laugh so you never feel the knife slipping in.”

“That does sound like me, a bit,” Hawke acknowledged.

“No mention of wanting to settle down to have a quiet life with your girlfriend though,” Tallis added.

“Well, that’s an oversight.”

“Not any mention of how… responsible you are,” Tallis continued. “I apologize. If I’d done my homework, maybe I would have treated you with the respect you deserve.”

Hawke kind of wanted to argue the responsible point, but figured that anything that made Tallis more likely to tell her the truth was probably worth letting stand.

“Well. I’m sorry for what happened to your boss,” Hawke said instead.

“Huh?” Tallis asked.

“The Arishok. Well, I say I’m sorry, but I don’t actually regret what I did,” Hawke explained. “It was just. I know why Isabela acted as she did- the Tome of Koslun was the only way to wipe out her debt with the Felicisima Armada, and she didn’t ask for my help because having people she can count on is a new concept for Isabela, and then years of frustration with dealing with Kirkwall’s Kirkwallyness came to a head and I just- I understand the impulse. Andraste’s tits, do I ever understand the impulse to just round up the notables of Kirkwall and make them behave or else. But. What is it you said before? There are other paths. I wish we’d taken one of those. There’s got to be some way of solving our differences that doesn’t involve burning half the city down.”

“There’s that responsibility,” Tallis observed.

Hawke raised an eyebrow at her.

“You aren’t just talking about the Arishok,” Tallis explained.

“No, I’m not,” Hawke said. “I think everyone knows by now exactly where Kirkwall is headed: towards fiery destruction and death on a grand scale, and quite a lot of tears.”

“You’ll be there to handle it,” Tallis said.

Hawke snorted. “I don’t know how. I can’t even stop my friends from bickering. That’s nice of you to say, though.”

They sat in silence for a time, waiting.

“So… should we try to escape now?” Tallis asked. “I’d like to get out of here before the duke decides we would taste good in the soup, or whatever he has planned.”

Hawke shrugged. In all honesty, even with the Orlesian jail thing this was still kind of a vacation for her. Thus far there had been a complete lack of Templars at every corner, or blood mages raining down from the sky. It was almost peaceful, in its own damp and chilly way. “We didn’t come here alone. Merrill and Isabela will be along shortly.”

* * *

“So, like, is part of Qunari philosophy that some people are improved by having their heads chopped off?”

“You’re joking, but you’re also serious.”

“I’m always serious when I’m joking.”

“That would explain a lot.”

…

“Should we play I spy?”

“Do Qunari play I spy?”

“It’s a training exercise, to sharpen observational skills.”

“… would I get a handicap for not actually being a spy?”

…

“There are seven noble families in Kirkwall whose names beginning with ‘O’, two prominent families in the Merchant’s Guild, and don’t even get me started on the actual merchants. The cheese-mongers alone-”

“Cheese?”

“They’re all from Ostwick, so they’re all named Ostermann or Osterlin or Ostosto and so on and so forth. And then for the longest time the Orlesian consulate in Kirkwall was named Odette Onfroi, and her wife was named Olympe. And then the Mortalitasi attached to the Nevarran consulate prior to the Qunari invasion was named Ivan Obed. And that’s just surnames!”

“Is it?”

“Do you know how many boys born in 9:07 and 9:08 have the name Orlando? Twenty-seven in Kirkwall alone. You know why that is? Because Brittomartis won the Grand Tourney in 9:07, and her horse was named Orlando. These people named their sons after a horse. Not even a mabari. A horse.”

“Why do you know how many people in Kirkwall have a name that begins with ‘o’?”

“You’re not the only rogue in this cell with a personal score to settle.”

…

“Do we have time to be sitting here, doing nothing?”

“I’ve been thinking of taking up knitting.”

“Can you knit me a sweater?”

“No.”

…

“The something beginning with ‘o’ that I spied earlier was Orlais, just so you know.”

“Are you _shitting_ me?”

* * *

“Okay, that’s enough of that now,” Tallis said, standing back up. “I am officially tired of waiting to be rescued.”

Hawke watched, bemused, as she picked the lock on the cell door.

“Why didn’t you just do that before?” she asked.

“You said your friends were coming,” Tallis protested.

“My friends are coming,” Hawke protested as Merrill and Isabela rounded the corner. “My friends are here!”

“Ma vhenan, thank the Creators, how did you escape? Was it exciting? Did you shank someone?” Merrill asked.

Hawke pointed to Tallis. “She just picked the lock.”

“And that took you two hours?” Isabela demanded.

“That’s what I said,” Hawke told them. “Also, she’s Qunari.”

“What,” Isabela said.

“And we’re going to help her regain her honor and also not get a bunch of innocent people killed.”

“What,” Isabela repeated.

“This does not involve you being handled by the Qunari in any way shape or form,” Hawke assured her. She thought about that for a moment before turning back to Tallis. “This does not involve Isabela being handled by the Qunari in any way shape or form.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Tallis assured them. “As far as we’re concerned, what happened in Kirkwall didn’t actually happen at all, anywhere, ever.”

“…okay,” Isabela said, not sounding okay at all. “Sure. Are you trusting this woman Hawke?”

“Of course I am, I have impeccable taste when it comes to trusting people,” Hawke said. She pointed at Isabela and Merrill. “See?”

Isabela considered that while Hawke beamed winningly at her.

“Fine, I can’t believe I’m say this, but let’s help the Qunari,” she sighed.

“She’s just upset because she didn’t manage to steal any of the good drinks,” Merrill assured Tallis.

“And you had too much,” Isabela retorted.

Hawke looked between the two of them in confusion.

“She thought she saw Sebastian,” Isabela clarified.

“I did see Sebastian!” Merrill protested. “And he does have an invitation…”

“He’s also the one who told me that I should steer clear of Chateau Hanky-Panky in the first place,” Hawke pointed out. “So if he’s here, something has gone very very wrong.”

“I didn’t see him,” Isabela said.

“You didn’t look!”

“Okay, hopefully something will go very very wrong in a way we can deal with later, because I feel like heading back to the main party now would end poorly,” Hawke interrupted them. “I assume you saw him at the party?”

Merrill nodded. “He was talking to the duke’s son.”

“There was someone flirting with the duke’s son, but I don’t think it was Sebastian.”

“You didn’t even see his face! You were too busy picking the lock.”

“Kitten, I didn’t need to see his face.”

“Later,” Hawke said. “Hopefully it’s nothing we can’t deal with later.”

* * *

Later came after some pirate dagger shenanigans, too many puzzles, a discussion about the Tome of Koslun that took a sudden turn into that night Isabela had had a threesome with Maraas that she could barely remember that had Hawke singing “I Don’t Want to Know About Qunari Ding-Dongs” (a song she had sadly needed to compose years earlier) and just ghasts. _So many ghasts_.

After all of that, came later. Andraste’s tits, did it ever come.

“Trust me,” Tallis hissed as she scarpered away, leaving the three of them to face Cahir and several hooded and masked mages.

“The Templars are not the only ones who know how to break a mage,” Cahir sneered.

Hawke shifted so that she was more completely between Merrill and the man’s line of sight.

“Yeah, this looks more like that Arvaraad type of being shit to mages,” she said. “Is that what the Duke is hoping to get from the Qunari? Control rods and saarebas collars?”

Cahir shook his head. “The duke is a fool. His enemies, a posturing guileless lot. But you are worth testing. The Duke can fight his own battles. And I shall choose mine.”

Well fuck, Hawke thought, and then slid to the left, allowing Merrill enough space to conjure her lightning and shifting herself through the shadows that dappled the cave they were in. She blindsided Cahir: the blow was glancing, but it loosened the plates of armor on his shoulder and she managed to dance back before he struck back with his axe. Isabela and Merrill were making quick work of the mages: they were crazed, unfocused, and beyond help. Quick was the best way to do it, really.

It was after they’d gone down and it was just Cahir against the three of them that later arrived.

“You’re putting up more of a fight then your menfolk did,” he taunted as he backed away from her blades.

Hawk resisted the urge to look around for dramatic effect. “Are you talking about you? Because you’re the only man here, and you’re not one of mine.”

“I meant your menfolk,” Cahir repeated. “Your prince, your dwarf, your elf, your pretty little ma-”

A dagger thunked next to his head.

“Missed,” Tallis snorted. “That would have been a nice shot too.”

She somersaulted back into the main room, followed by the pirates they’d freed earlier, and then Cahir’s reinforcements rounded the corner: this time, it was mostly mundane soldiers and assassins, but there were a few of his masked mages.

Hawke ignored them all. She needed answers, and the only to get to them was through Cahir.

“What did you do?” she snarled. “What did you do to them?”

Cahir laughed. “I caught them. The Duke will decide what happens to them. They were not worthy of-”

Hawke managed to land a blow on the opening on his shoulder she’d created earlier. This time the blow was not glancing, and her blade was coated in fell poison. Cahir grunted, and staggered in pain.

“Where are they?” she demanded.

Cahir took a wild swing at her, which she would have dodged easily, except that it was less a wild swing and more of a feint that sent the haft of his axe into her midriff.

“ _Gabh síos ort fhéin_ ,” she hissed, and in the split second of surprise that got her she forced the point of her dagger through the plates on his stomach in retaliation. Cahir’s answering strike never landed: Merrill’s lightning fried him and the axe fell from his nerveless fingers, clattering on the floor just before his body collapsed beside it.

“Where are they?” she repeated.

Cahir laughed again, one hand pressed against the wound in his stomach. “They were weak. The Duke has his men attending to them.”

“ _Ná bí ag iarraidh cluain an chacamais a chur orm_ ,” Hawke hissed, kicking at his wound. “ _Nach bhfuil tú ag éisteacht liom?_ ”

Cahir grinned, blood staining his teeth. “ _Aiteann_ ,” he spat.

Hawke made to kick him again, but Merrill held her back.

“Hawke,” she said. “Hawke, that’s enough. He can’t tell us where they are if he’s dead.”

Hawke made no reply.

“Besides,” Merrill continued valiantly. “He wants to tell us, don’t you Cahir?”

“ _Ní dhéanaim_ ,” Cahir replied.

“He says ‘no’,” Hawke translated, before adding for Cahir’s benefit “ _Níl tada níos measa na bód ina seasamh._ ”

“Of course he does,” Merrill said, undaunted. “He tested you and you won. Besides, you’re from the same People.” Hawke could hear the capital ‘P’ in her voice.

“ _Is cuma liom_ ,” Cahir answered.

Hawke took a deep breath and crouched down next to him, when what she really wanted to do was punch the dick that hurt her friends. “Look,” she said, pointedly sticking to Trade. “You’re not a fan of the Duke. I’m not a fan of the Duke. At this point, I’m beginning to suspect that the only person who’s a fan of the Duke is that pet wyvern of his. You’re going to die. You can either die telling me a way to humiliate His Gratuitous Dickface further or you could die slowly and painful and having accomplished nothing. Your choice.”

“ _Níl tada níos measa na bód ina seasamh_ ,” Cahir echoed. “He might have them in the dungeons by now, but he wanted them far from you. There are ruins at the base of the mountain. The eastern path will lead you directly to it.”

“ _Go raibh maith agat_ ,” Hawke said, and cut his throat.

“You’re Chasind,” Tallis said as she stood back up.

“Almost,” Hawke replied. She was almost sure that her father had been born to Wilders, had almost lived in the Korcari Wilds, had almost eloped with a Wilder girl and joined her clan, where she almost certainly would have been killed by Darkspawn along with everyone else.

It was an old pain. It felt more strange than hurtful to feel it again.

“I should have listened to Merrill,” Isabela said.

“You didn’t know,” Hawke told her. “We still don’t know what they’re doing here.”

She turned to Tallis.

“I can’t ask you to help me,” she began.

“I can, and I’m going to ask you right now,” Hawke interrupted her. “Look, you lied to us. You had your reasons, and they aren’t even bad reasons, but you lied to get us here. If you want our help, then help us rescue our guys.”

“I have to stop Salit.”

“We’ll help you with that after we rescue Sebastian and the others.”

“I don’t know how long we have before Salit is supposed to meet with the Duke.”

“And we don’t know what’s happening to my people right now,” Hawke argued. “So. Yes or no, will you help us.”

She already knew what Tallis’ answer would be. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”

“Very well then,” Hawke said. “We’ll… try to meet up with you, if we can.”

Tallis nodded stiffly, and went to unlock the portcullis.

“I’d say I’m sorry to see her go, but I’m really not,” Isabela muttered.

“Well don’t get too excited. Somehow I doubt we’ve seen the last of her,” Hawke sighed. “Come on, let’s go rescue the boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chasind** :  
>  _Gabh síos ort fhéin_ : “go fuck yourself sideways” or literally “go sideways on yourself”  
>  _Ná bí ag iarraidh cluain an chacamais a chur orm_ : Don’t bullshit me.  
>  _Nach bhfuil tú ag éisteacht liom?_ : Are you listening to me?  
>  _Aiteann_ : Cunt  
>  _Ní dhéanaim_ : I do not.  
>  _Níl tada níos measa na bód ina seasamh._ : Literally “There’s nothing worse than an upright prick. When Hawke says it, she’s calling Cahir a raging erection. When Cahir uses it, he’s agreeing that the duke’s a dick.  
>  _Is cuma liom_ : I don’t care.  
>  _Go raibh maith agat _: Thanks__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> __**Author’s Notes** :  
> I apologize for how short this chapter is, and the long wait that’s coming after it. Real life is no longer spiraling out of control, but I work in retail, fourth quarter started today, and I might be getting a promotion. Also, you know, all the various assorted holidays that happen at the end of the year.  
> Therefore this is going back on hiatus until January 15th. I intend to make myself write at least 200 words a day for this story until then, and then I’m going to try for a once a month update until I can have the whole shebang finished. Once that happens, I’ll switch to once every two weeks.  
> 


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